The greatest prize
by RonCN
Summary: Sequel to 'The long way to profit'. Heeding Entreri's suggestion, they hit the road… and surely enough, trouble ensues. But this time, it might be something greater than anything they could have anticipated. More rewarding, too - if they can pull it off.
1. Where the road goes

Disclaimer: _What's not mine, doesn't belong to me. No profit is being made._

Important A/N: _Welcome, and welcome back to all my old friends! Yes, the first author's note of my fics tends to be novel-length, I know… but please, bear with me this once: I believe everything I have to say is quite interesting this time :)_

_Firstly, this is a sequel to _The long way to profit_. The characters have all undergone development and certain adventures… Without reading that first, this will sound awfully ooc and plain confusing. Next, as a piece of trivia, I want to say that I can't draw. But I enjoy trying, and there's a few manga-style pictures of my original characters in my _deviantart_ account – homepage of my profile. You might like them – let me know your opinion if you check them out!_

_Finally, this second installment will have plenty of action, intrigue, adventure, and, of course, our friends will mature and change with their experiences. I try to stick to cannon FR lore, but there are a couple of issues that I'll be warning you about as they come up – or else, this note _will_ be novel-length. _

_And now, on with the first chapter. Please, let me know your thoughts! You just have to press the green review button at the end…_

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**Where the road goes**

He was the one closest to the perimeter, so he was the first one feeling it. The vague sensation of being observed, the prickle of danger in his skin, making the fine white hairs of the nape of his neck stand up electrified. Ruby eyes scanned the surrounding area, and Rizolvir's hand closed upon his sword's pommel.

"We are not alone," he said, barely above a whisper, and the man walking a few strides ahead of him nodded.

Entreri had picked up the slight change in atmosphere too, and the drow's comment only served to reassure him that whoever was around, it wasn't anyone friendly. Still, the assassin kept his posture relaxed, not giving away that he was aware of their assailants if not for the quick look he shared with the tense drow behind him.

Not a move, that look said, and Artemis hoped that he would heed it.

He knew too well that any drow warrior worth his salt wouldn't, though.

And surely enough, he didn't get a nod as an answer.

On the bright side of things, it wasn't a sneer either what he got: it was a raised eyebrow and a decidedly amused expression, which the man translated roughly to mean, 'and why would we want that?'.

Well, Entreri thought, at least the drow had actually understood that he wanted their enemies to be confident in their 'surprise advantage', and that had to count for something.

The next step would be for the spellsword to actually act on his insight, and he would be almost as comfortable fighting alongside the former smith as he was with Jarlaxle.

Jarlaxle.

Artemis would love to have a means to communicate with the drow rogue, but the outrageous hat could be seen a few yards ahead, its owner enthusiastically trying to learn how to drive a cart while chatting animatedly with one Yria Ingerd – surely about how to best rule the world. There was no way for the assassin to make eye contact with the elf to issue a warning, so he would have to make do with Rizolvir to carry out his rapidly forming plan.

Not that he didn't work well with the warrior mage, because he did, but the two of them still needed to work on the finer points of coordination that made him and Jarlaxle such a perfect, deadly team.

And there was a barely heard sound and a barely seen movement, and it was at that precise moment in time that their unseen assailants decided to make their presence officially known.

The Calishite smirked darkly and welcomed the action.

Because at that precise moment in time, Artemis Entreri thoroughly refused to have an epiphany about how well he seemed to be able to perform when teamed up with a drow.

Two arrows flew off from opposite sides of the road simultaneously, just as four ragged looking individuals stepped out of the shadows and into the path, brandishing wicked blades and equally evil smiles.

Jarlaxle had barely the time to abandon his conversation and to jump off the wagon, but when he landed, he was ready to battle.

The bandits hadn't even gotten properly positioned yet, and he couldn't help but to smile when he saw where the two arrows on the fly were aimed.

The only attack that might have had some chance of actually hitting any of the four companions, and it had been wasted in one of the horses.

The drow snapped his wrist once, twice, thrice, and his magical bracer fed an unending supply of daggers into his waiting hand. The bandits had gone out of their way to make sure that the small merchant group couldn't escape, when they should have been busy and concerned about escaping themselves? This was going to be a quick affair alright.

Highwaymen this days just didn't have the brains.

Back in the rear guard, Rizolvir's first instinct was to lunge forwards as fast as possible, and to dispatch the insolent humans as summarily as possible. Not only because 'ahead' was were Yria stood and he actually wanted to fight by her side – even if doing so brought him much too close to the sly and weird creatures known as 'horses' – but because that was where he should be. A true warrior should be in the thick of battle, always aiming to becoming stronger… and he really needed to become a true, strong warrior if he wanted to appease his god for a lifetime spent in the forges rather than in the battle field.

Even Enserric, his sentient longsword, was silently pushing him to the front, whishing to sate its permanent bloodlust, informing mind of the weak nature of his foes, and honestly he was a hair's breath away from obeying his body and bolting into the fray.

Fortunately, that was the moment chosen by his drow nature to kick in.

Death never comes to look you in the eye.

And so the spellsword twirled around, his twin blades a whirlwind of steel, his footwork making him dance to a deadly, inaudible tune.

There was blood, and one of the sneaking bandits was killed even before he realized that he had been spotted.

The second silent assassin gulped when he realized just what kind of demon was hiding beneath the cowl.

And yet, even as he stared mesmerized at ebon skin and glowering ruby eyes, the killing blow came silent and invisible in the form of one powerful swipe of Charon's Claw.

Honestly, though, there wasn't that much of a difference between his expected murdered and the one who actually delivered the blow.

Entreri pulled his sword free with an abrupt jerk, and spared a glance to the drow – he had to admit to being a little impressed, for the elf had reacted almost as quickly as himself – before rushing forwards, to the other point that had been attacked.

His own battle had been solved in a matter of seconds, but still he had to get ahead before…

The assassin cursed loudly upon seeing the third man fall under a steady torrent of daggers that showed no sign of being anywhere close to drying up.

"Jarlaxle!" he shouted. "Keep one of them alive!"

There was no doubt that the drow heard him, and that he quickly understood and immediately shared his idea, for the bald rogue visible winced when, not a fraction of a heartbeat after Artemis issued the warning, one of his daggers embedded itself onto the throat of the last standing man, while a second one was buried to the hilt in his chest.

Jarlaxle chucked uncomfortably and Entreri sighed.

"Ah, so sorry, Artemis. It seems that I got carried away… could we try to find the archers instead?"

The Calishite snorted.

"Good luck with that," he muttered, and looked pointedly to the petite girl that was still sitting in the cart.

She was absently picking at an invisible thread of her cloak, and the air of innocent obliviousness that surrounded her was too dense – and too familiar to one Jarlaxle – to be believable.

"Hmm?" she inquired when she felt three pairs of eyes on her.

"Are you alright, Yria?" Rizolvir asked in turn, his deep ruby eyes searching her face as he obviously debated whether to go to her – thus getting closer to the hateful 'horses' – or to stay where he was.

But before she could answer, Entreri was asking another question of his own.

"Couldn't you _not_ have gone overboard, for once?"

The sorceress hadn't even bothered pinpointing the location of the archers. She had merely let two fireballs fly loose in the general area, which in turn had resulted in two bits of forest less along the road.

"I wasn't going overboard!" she protested. And to her credit, she didn't actually believe that she had. "I was just doing our job, defending this caravan!"

"And of course it didn't occur to you to keep one of the attackers alive, right?"

"… Why would we want to catch one of them?"

"No, of course it didn't occur to her," the assassin sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Unknown to him, it was this tired and deflated gesture what placated the antagonizing look that Rizolvir had started to throw his way as soon as he had started questioning the young woman.

"Why would she think of interrogating someone?" the man added quite bitterly.

"But we're not seeking answers," Yria commented, cocking her head to the side in genuine curiosity. "Why would we want to interrogate anyone? What would we _ask_?"

Artemis just gave her an incredulous look.

Unfortunately, Yria had proven to be quite impervious to his stares, and she merely kept looking at him, not in the least intimidated and quite intrigued.

And that's when Jarlaxle decided that it was as good a moment as any to step into the conversation: Artemis was improving his social skills greatly thanks to his own personal coaching, but the poor man was nowhere near ready to deal with an Yria yet.

The dark elf approached his friend, when the action didn't result in an immediate death threat, he patted the man's shoulder, awkwardly trying to calm and console him.

"There, there," he said, carefully and ready to snatch back his arm if it looked like he was in danger of loosing it. "It's not that she doesn't listen, it's just that she… ah… got carried away with the accomplishment of our immediate goal, that is protecting the valuables, and she _momentarily_ forgot about the numerous misconceptions surrounding this job."

And Artemis redirected to him his incredulous stare, and Jarlaxle felt forced to add,

"Right?"

Yria looked at him funnily, and Rizolvir merely smirked – no help at all coming from that front.

Finally, the girl nodded and said,

"Right."

Sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

Artemis sighed, Rizolvir's smirk evolved into a full-fledged smile, and Jarlaxle chuckled nervously.

"Well, doesn't matter," the drow rogue told her. "I will go over the details with you again while we solve the problem of the dead team of horses."

After all, if after much thought and reflection he had just decided to start listening to what Artemis Entreri was actually saying, it was only fair that he ensured that the others did the same.

o O o

It was their last night staying at Beregost. They had already rested enough to face another leg of their journey, and Entreri's suggestion that they get out of town as soon as possible had seemed wise enough, so there really was no reason for them to stay any longer.

But as fate would have it, Beregost simply refused to let go of them so easily, and its dust tried to accompany them in the form of a new employer: a tall, lanky, balding merchant who had made the stop in the customary route to the East, and who had just happened to overhear something or other about the prowess of the mercenary group.

As predicted, a new job found them easily enough.

The man, who went by the name of Tyler Folrn, had been interested in securing their services as escorts, and had come to the common room of the inn the group was staying at to discuss business.

And as they all sat there, sipping various beverages and listening with various degrees of interest to the offer the merchant was making, Way to Profit no. 6 started to outline itself in their minds.

Still, Folrn left without a definite answer that night, the companions having promised to discuss the offer and to give him an answer in the morrow. And why?

Why wouldn't they jump at the chance of getting paid for doing something that they were intending to do anyway? After all, there was nothing too special about a merchant hiring out mercenaries to make sure that his goods reached their intended market.

Because that was exactly where stuff started to turn weirder and weirder.

First off, the caravan was small. One single carriage, one single patron kind of small. And yes, there were valuable cargos that could make such a venture profitable enough, but usually the men in charge of them weren't lanky, balding peasants.

The second clue was the lack of previous guards to work with, to replace or to reinforce. Apparently, the merchant had made it to Beregost alone and then decided that he needed protectors for the next half of the journey. Okay, that was weird alright.

Then there was the fact that the man wanted to hire all four of them – surely two guards were more than enough for such a small expedition?

Not to mention that with the fares imposed by a merciless Jarlaxle-Yria negotiation tandem, the poor merchant had surely been stripped of any gain he might have been hoping to get in the first place.

Not even Jarlaxle's experienced, market-y oriented mind could come up with an explanation good enough to Folrn's eagerness.

Still, when the man was sent on his way, it came as a surprise to Artemis Entreri. Even the assassin had to admit that the pay was good enough, and the fact that there was a mystery behind the contract had never dissuaded Jarlaxle before.

What happened once they were alone was more shocking.

Jarlaxle took off is hat, ran a hand along his scalp, and gave his audience a sheepish look.

"So… there obviously is some kind of trap. Myself, I can safely say that I am intrigued. I seriously doubt that, whatever surprise might be in stock, it will something that we can't deal with. I would like to see what kind of opportunity we can find in Caravan Protecting and, after all, we are going to be traveling soon enough whether we get the job or not," the drow's visible eye blinked, and it was clear how difficult it was for the former leader of Bregan D'aerthe to utter his next words. "What do you all think? Artemis?" A gulp. A stutter. And then Jarlaxle pressed on, with a small voice. "Shall we… vote?"

And Artemis Entreri was amazed at the way the dark elf was consciously giving up manipulation and baring an actual choice to them.

The assassin realized that the dark elf was… trying to apologize, in his own subtle, roundabout way. Even though Jarlaxle himself would never ever out it in so many words.

He knew that, knowing the drow rogue's nature as well as he did, this new behavior couldn't possibly last. It was against everything Jarlaxle believed in.

But it was something quite nice to see, a once in a lifetime show, and Entreri enjoyed every minute of nervous suspense Jarlaxle endured.

Then he shrugged, faking a great deal of disinterest, and said:

"We're going that way anyway."

Besides, he would be lying if he didn't admit that he was more than a little curious himself.

Even if he had not been recognized as the man he was, normal sane people avoided drow like the plague. And while Jarlaxle might _somehow_ have worked his way beyond the prejudices with his non-threatening, all-around bright demeanor, to say that the other, darker, dark elf had done the same went way beyond any stretch of the imagination, no matter how wild.

So why would a normal merchant want to hire a professional assassin, two drow and a top-notch sorceress for a single wagon of cargo?

o O o

Entreri looked at the corpses around them, doing his best to ignore the whining of the caravan proprietor.

Whatever it was, these weaklings certainly couldn't be the reason.


	2. Campfire revelations

A/N: _Some group interaction for you, and some light to be shed on the unknown danger that lurks ahead. Just one thing: the site's being acting funny with my formating today, so there might be some italics lacking... I hope that's not the case, as you know italics are the only way to mark Enserric's dialogue, but if so, I apologize. Now, I'll let you read, enjoy, and comment –_

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**Campfire revelations**

The fire cracked when Jarlaxle threw another log to the flames, and its orange glow flared up momentarily before dying down again.

They had made lousy time that day, but then again it was only to be expected: the cart now had one horse to pull its weight instead of two, and while they all were stuck walking – Tyler Folrn included – it was still much too heavy for the beast.

Besides, even if the fight itself hadn't taken too long, the picking the of corpses, the disposing of them, and the rearranging of their traveling duties and positions had certainly slowed them down.

No matter that when the sun started to go down Yria had tried to get the merchant to push to wagon – it hadn't gone any faster, and they had been forced to camp in the wilderness.

It wasn't something that bothered Jarlaxle terribly. Artemis and he had done plenty of camping while escaping from his traitorous lieutenants not too long ago, and it was one of the very basic things that a mercenary such as himself had to be comfortable with in order to win his salt.

But it was oh so very boring.

Jarlaxle poked the fire some more, and sighed. He was pulling first watch, and it was proving to be entirely uneventful.

As a matter of fact, the whole trip was proving to be much more quiet than expected. Out of Beregost, they had gone south and east for days and days before trouble managed to find them. And the band of bandits that had assaulted them once the group had hit the Uldoon Trail barely accounted as trouble for the seasoned mercenary.

The drow was starting to feel thoroughly cheated.

Besides, there was just so much amusement to be found in watching the shapes of the dancing flames and in listening to his sleeping companions' even breaths.

It was only a matter of time before he turned to the only source of entertainment available, really.

"This is much more beautiful than the Underdark, isn't it?" he commented.

Rizolvir was forced to lift his gaze from the spell book he was studying by the firelight. The unwavering gaze of the one eyed rogue had been unsettling him for a while, and when the older drow decided to start speaking aloud, he guessed that he had no other option but to acknowledge that yes, Jarlaxle had every intention of talking to him that night.

And he had been doing such a wonderful job of avoiding him for all of the last week too… Pity.

"I find the open spaces bothersome and the scenery overrated, but feel free to hold your own judgment," he said quietly.

"Oh? But if you don't like it, why did you come up here?"

None of your business, Rizolvir wanted to say. But he held himself in check. Being blunt with a drow never paid off, after all.

"As you are aware, I do not have a House to serve. And while I have experienced the life of a craftsman, I find that existence to be lacking in long term expectations, so I came to seek some profit and improvement. Much like yourself, I assume."

_Improvement? Oh, I get it… you were done with feeling up all kinds of weapons and decided to improve your sex life by following Yria, uh? Don't know pal, she seems to be as stiff as the next longsword…_

Rizolvir shifted his position and discreetly allowed his booted heel to come into contact with the scabbard of his unbelted sword, which rested well within grasping range. Other than that, he masterfully ignored the sentient weapon's comments.

It was something he did not want to think about, and thankfully Jarlaxle's conversation prevented him from doing so.

"Well, yes, I guess I did," the rogue chuckled. "But I do find the surface liberating, don't you? Mostly after having been oppressed by females for so long. You used to work with the _Valsharess_, right?"

The spellsword smirked. The _Valsharess_. The Empress of the Underdark. Ah, if only his partner knew…

Ruby eyes glinted at Jarlaxle from the shadows, and Rizolvir's smirk eased into a somewhat enigmatic smile.

"You seem to be quite interested in the _Valsharess_, _abbil_. I wonder why?"

Jarlaxle shrugged nonchalantly, carefully masking the fact that he was really close to getting the answer to one of the many question he had concerning his new associates.

"Yria brought her name up when we met," he said. Then, he watched carefully and added, "And so did Eldath when he told me about his… about Yria's Future Markets."

If he had been expecting the name to bring up any kind of reaction, he was in for a disappointment. Rizolvir didn't so much as stir.

"You have not cut your ties to the drow if you recognize her name," he merely pointed out.

"Why should I?" Jarlaxle asked in turn, tensing up slightly. There was no real reason to keep Bregan D'aerthe as a secret but… it was too much of an ingrained habit to even consider discussing it with a complete stranger.

"I merely wonder why you would feel the need to fake as if you had," and the smile in Rizolvir's face gained a trace of smugness.

Jarlaxle blinked.

It was the second time he had a one on one talk with the warrior mage, and it was the second time he was somehow put on the defensive. Either his own abilities had rusted beyond the unthinkable – which would be entirely Entreri's fault, for not allowing him to practice – or the drow in front of him wasn't quite as harmless as he seemed to be.

It had better be the second option, Jarlaxle thought. He'd hate to be losing his edge.

The rogue smiled and inclined his head, graciously admitting defeat in the first round of verbal sparring, but he was far from letting go. There were things that he still didn't know about Yria and Rizolvir, even if most of his questions regarding the duo had been solved somewhere along their previous adventure.

One of the bothersome bits that still escaped him was the nature of their relationship with the Empress, and by association with his new lieutenant, Eldath.

And by the looks of it, his attempts at solving the mystery had been thwarted yet again.

Still, he couldn't very well let Rizolvir walk away from the conversation believing that he had won.

"Ah, you should know better than to try to understand the drow."

Ruby eyes twinkled, and Rizolvir snorted with amusement.

"I would not dream of understanding your mind, rest assured. I am positive that the results would leave me scarred for life."

Jarlaxle chuckled softly, and realized what it was that infuriated him so about dealing with the spellsword.

He hadn't dealt with drow wit in a long, long time. Firstly, because his latest ventures seemed to involve more surfacers than dark elves, and secondly because it had been a long time since anyone in Menzoberranzan had actually tried to banter on par with him.

The revelation was well worth some sincerity on his part.

"I confess that I'm curious about the _Valsharess_ in that she seems to be an important part of who Yria is now – and who she is to you," he admitted carefully. "I can't help but wonder what does it take for a drow to follow a human."

Rizolvir stared at Jarlaxle long and hard, and finally he sighed and tucked his spell book aside. This was a conversation that was long due, and there shouldn't come any trouble from it.

Probably not, anyway.

"There is not such an important link as the one you seem to seek. The _Valsharess_ rose, Yria killed her. There is nothing else to the story," he explained quietly, and his eyes were serious as he did.

"I see," though in truth, Jarlaxle didn't. That the two females had been on _opposite_ sides was a theory that hadn't crossed his mind, and it didn't seem to be consistent with the whole Eldath business.

The rogue decided to grasp this honesty streak and asked away.

"So where does Eldath fit, then?"

"I do not know who he is. I have never heard that name before we met you."

Uh-oh, Jarlaxle thought. Had his relationship with the sorceress been a secret that he had just busted?

"If you want to find out that badly, you might be interested in asking Yria herself. I do not believe she will have a reason to conceal the answers," Rizolvir whispered, as if he had read the rogue's thoughts. "But I believe your mind would be put to better use if you tried to understand yourself before attempting to figure out anyone else.

"Where does the profit lay, Jarlaxle?"

Said elf stared at the former smith, his visible garnet eye narrowed in thought at the other's words.

Just what did that drowling think that he was implying?

It was obvious that profit was…

Wherever it was, it would have to wait because something was definitely not right.

To be honest, something hadn't been right for the longest while, but the two had managed to ignore it.

It irritated Jarlaxle that the spellsword had waited until it had become noticeable enough that they were forced to acknowledge it to throw his final barb, thus effectively getting the last word in.

He was _so_ going to get back at Rizolvir as soon as they figured out why everything was dark.

Well, yes, it was the dead of the night so it was supposed to be dark, but not even the dead of the night should shroud them in such pitch black.

At least, not to their infrared vision.

Their glowing eyes, used to the sunless pits, could not pierce through the velvety shadows that had closed in around the campsite, and their keep elven ears couldn't catch anything unusual to explain this fact.

Everything was eerie calm. It was not the cricket singing in the moonlight kind of calm, though; and neither was it the silence of the dead tomb-like kind of calm. It was the kind of calm you get when all sound reaches you through still water.

Or through sandy rock walls.

"Underdark calm," Jarlaxle realized with a start.

Rizolvir lifted a deceptively delicate eyebrow in questioning and slid his hand towards Enserric, who had been sulking since his earlier kick.

"Is this what we have been waiting for?"

Jarlaxle casually touched one of his many earrings, activating its power with a thought as he drew one of his daggers and elongated it with a flick of his wrist.

"No, I don't think so," he said when his magical examination turned up nothing. "But waking the others up just in case can't hurt."

The rogue elf picked up a pebble and threw it half a foot away from Entreri's head. The sound was minimal, the disruption unnoticeable… but the man woke up with a frown, his jeweled dagger at the ready and his other hand slipping around Charon's Claw.

Another pebble was sent to Yria, but the results were quite different. She didn't even stir.

A second lucky throw hit her head, and it succeeded in rousing her long enough to grumble,

"Jus' five mo' minutes, please."

Entreri cursed. They were being attacked here, the least she could do was actually wake up!

Jarlaxle should probably had been angry too – she had magic at her disposal that could come in handy – but the mercenary was more amused. He had never met anyone, human or otherwise, so carefree. Probably Artemis could learn a thing or two about loosening up from her, he thought.

Unless she was under the effects of some spell or drug?

Just one person knew.

"Is she always like that?" he asked, turning to Rizolvir and momentarily putting away any concern for the impending attack in favor of satiating his newest curiosity bout.

The other drow chose to ignore him, though.

"It is circling to the right," Rizolvir's voice was tense and his body was rotating as he spoke, his ruby eyes staring intently at one point of the darkness.

Forget about Yria's sleeping habits. Could that smith actually see anything?

"How do you know? I see nothing," and I've got magical enhancements to my eyes, he added silently.

Rizolvir started and spared a glance to the one eyed drow, before turning around again with a weird look in his face.

"I know because the areas where I cannot see have changed," he replied at length, matter-of-factly.

"Ah, yes, that makes sense."

What didn't make sense was that he, Jarlaxle, hadn't realized sooner. The rogue gave a sly look to the other drow, and found himself wondering for the second time in the same night just who that spellsword was.

_Close call, pal, _Enserric chuckled in the back of Rizolvir's head. _Now he thinks you are suspicious. _

"_I could not care less,"_ the warrior mage snorted._ "I find him to be a suspicious character myself, so I suppose that makes us even. Now keep me updated and save the chat for later."_

_Geez, you're no fun. __Well... It's still circling_ _to the right, but it's not coming any closer. And there doesn't seem to be a second presence, so save me the question._

Rizolvir nodded and kept his senses trained in the sword in his hand. Instinctively, he signaled for Entreri to move over, keeping up with the foe only he could see, and somehow the assassin did just that – after having thrown a suitably murderous glare his way for daring to order him around, of course.

Able to think clearer with the skillful Calishite standing between a very sleeping Yria and a very unknown threat, he directed his thoughts to Enserric again.

_I am in your head, I know what you're going to ask. And no, I don't know what it is, honest. Feels like an outsider, but I can't tell where from. Smells somewhat familiar, though… I'm sure I could nail it if I got a taste._

_"This is when you make your useful suggestions."_

_…_

_Search me._

The drow cursed in his native tongue and physically glared at the blade in his hands.

Doing so, he caught sight of something most interesting reflected on the sentient sword's edge.

_"This foe, it is not approaching, is it?"_

_Not a step._

Rizolvir nodded and sought Jarlaxle out. The drow was crouched low, one dagger extended into his customary blade and another waiting in his hand, ready to be thrown should a blank arise, and the spellsword quickly started to signal to him.

Jarlaxle smirked and nodded, and then started to search through his vest and his belt pouches.

It seemed like forever until the dark elf pulled out a bag with small ceramic marbles, his smirk widening into a mischievous grin as he signaled with abbreviated and exaggerated hand movements for both Rizolvir and Entreri to close their eyes.

Entreri took a few steps back, Rizolvir discreetly pointed the appropriate spot…

And for a split second, the sun shone.

Then the dead of the night came back, and through their ruined vision the three mercenaries could see blotches of light and shadows upon shadows – the threes, the undulating grass and the stars up in the inky heavens.

The presence was gone.

"Jarlaxle?"

"Yes, Artemis?"

"You had absolutely nothing to do with that, right?"

The drow faked a hurt look, covering his heart with his right hand as he secured his weapons back in their hiding places.

"Why, Artemis! I don't know why you'd think such a thing! Of course I had nothing to do with that."

The assassin pierced him with a 'look', and Jarlaxle sighed.

"Really. I'm serious this time."

"Then I think it is high time we ask Mr. Folrn for details of this job," the man said somberly.

"I agree. We have diverted the attack this once, but we cannot hope for continuing luck if we ignore what we are up against."

Entreri nodded in Rizolvir's direction, and then stalked off to rouse their patron. The elf made to follow, but an inquisitive look from Jarlaxle stopped him in his tracks.

"Do we ignore what we're up against, I wonder?"

"Unless you know something we do not."

Jarlaxle merely tilted his head to the side and tapped his index finger against his chin, thoughtful.

"And yet that was one lucky move you orchestrated."

_Suspicious, I told you._

_"He already covets you after the havoc you brought upon the elemental. I do not intend to give him any more reasons to desire my possessions."_ And his face didn't change its expression as he said aloud,

"Lucky indeed. Do you wish to discuss fate now, or shall we accompany Artemis Entreri and oversee his interrogation of our employer?"

Jarlaxle flinched. Probably it was not a good idea to leave a recently awakened, pissed Artemis and a secretive Mr. Forln alone for too long, lest the employer was no more.

Still, the look that he threw over his shoulder as he went said very clearly that he knew that something was amiss, and that he had every intention of finding out what.

_Ah, you're jealous! My, my, so cute!_

_"… Then again, probably he will change his mind and leave me alone if he learns the truth of your big mouth."_

The sword imagined a life of service hung at the hip of the extravagant drow, and the certainty that Jarlaxle would indeed find a way to shape-change it to better suit his sense of aesthetics made a shiver run through the blade's conscience.

_Let's not test that theory. After all, I've grown to love my little drowling here!_

Rizolvir simply rolled his eyes and stalked forward.

In his own way, he _did_ appreciate the antics of his sword, too.

But said sword couldn't revel in this particular thought of its master, because at that moment a loud stutter called for the attention of the drow.

Apparently, the small caravan master had been awake all along.

The man was half hiding under the cart, where his bedding was extended, and he cowered in fear against one of the big wheels.

Rizolvir exchanged a look with Jarlaxle.

They knew Entreri could be scary, but surely he hadn't yet had time to leave Folrn in such a state?

"They are back – They are back – They are back - …"

No, Artemis wasn't to blame for that brand of craziness.

The assassin proved to have little to no consideration for the state of the wretch, though.

Roughly grabbing the merchant and hauling him out of his hiding place, the man stared into unfocused eyes with the promise of immediate, painful death clearly reflected in his gray orbs.

"Who are they?"

Fear of the very present man proved to win over fear of the unseen assailants, and Tyler Folrn looked into Entreri's eyes as he attempted to put his answer together.

"I – I don't know! You have to believe me! I don't know who they are - !"

"And yet you fear them so?"

"You have felt it too! And they are following me! They won't let me go! That's why I hired you… You can't let them get me!"

The man actually started to cry and whimper at that point, and Entreri let go of him in disgust.

Still hovering close, though, the Calishite asked in a dangerous whisper,

"Why are they following you?"

"I don't know what they want!" Entreri's hand went to his dagger, all patience worn out, and the merchant paled and hurried to add, "But it all started when I got the book!"

The three mercenaries looked at each other.

Curious, Jarlaxle decided that Entreri had been civilized enough and that it was time for him to take over the interrogation.

"What book might that be, Master Folrn?"

The terrified man seemed to calm some at the even tone of the drow, and when he managed to collect enough air to speak without choking, he started to explain.

"I… I was doing the route south of the Coast Way, as always, and then someone approached me with this book… Folk looked normal enough, and he said that it was a copy of a work of Candlekeep's library… Something or other about magic, and he just needed me to get it to Berdusk. I was going to pass by Berdusk anyway! So – So I accepted it! It was supposed to make me rich, not to get me killed!"

The drow sighed. Obviously Tyler Folrn wasn't very bright, and someone smarter had decided to pawn the book on him… For what purposes, though, was yet to be determined.

"How are they going to get you killed, Master Folrn? Are these shadows recurrent?"

The merchant nodded frantically.

"Not just the shadows… The monsters, and the robbers, and the things that have been assaulting me! Never before had a trip been like this – I know it must be the book!"

"We should probably have a look at this mysterious book," Rizolvir commented quietly.

It took a moment for the merchant to register that it actually was an order, and then he fumbled and produced a somewhat thin leather bound book and handed it over.

It looked more like a journal than like a book, Rizolvir surmised as he turned it over in his hands, but the pages were filled with small and neat calligraphy in a language he only half understood.

He shook his head and passed the book to Jarlaxle.

"The document might be a copy, but its contents are ancient. I cannot decipher it, but there is a good chance that this is indeed the reason behind tonight's visit."

Jarlaxle did a cursory examination. He had trinkets and resources to learn what the book said, but he couldn't use them in front of everyone.

It wouldn't do for them to learn of his tricks.

Still, even just by looking, he could tell that there was some important information in there. The manuscript just made his 'powerful item on sight' sense tingle all over.

He debated with himself for a few heartbeats, between what he wanted to do and what he should do.

Finally, his newfound sense of contrition towards his long time companion won over and he asked,

"Artemis? Can we keep it?"


	3. No rest for the wicked

**No rest for the wicked**

Greenest wasn't half as green as its name suggested. In fact, there was nothing remarkable about the small city: it just sat there, in the middle of the Uldoon Trail, a bunch of small houses and packed streets bustling with people and drowning in dust.

It was one of the westernmost gates to the Trade Route, though, and that did show: there were faces from all over Faerun to be found in the local inn.

Still, the innkeeper seemed to refuse to have faces from all _under_ Faerun as well, because he was giving a real hard time to the four tired travelers that had just arrived to his establishment with the setting sun.

Yes, four. Mr. Tyler Folrn was nowhere to be seen.

"We should have thought ahead of this," Yria muttered, staring morosely at the innkeeper.

"This situation wouldn't have arisen in the first place if Jarlaxle had agreed to use a disguise," Entreri commented, his arms crossed over his chest and his back leaning against the wall.

The sorceress made a dismissive gesture.

"I don't see why he should have to hide."

"_Your_ drow companion has the good sense of hiding."

Two pair of eyes looked at the suddenly uncomfortable Rizolvir. The warrior mage barely resisted the urge to take a step back in light of the scrutiny, and merely slid the cowl of his piwafwi lower over his obsidian features.

"It's not that he's hiding," Yria said at long last. "It's just that he doesn't like crowds, and open spaces give him nausea, so he puts a barrier up in the form of a piwafwi. It's entirely different."

Rizolvir winced, wondering if volunteering such information had been so necessary on the sorceress part, and Entreri remained impassive, only showing his surprise at the revelation with a slight twitch of his left eyebrow.

"What did you want to plan ahead, then?" the assassin asked, intrigued against his better judgment.

"Convincing methods, that's all. This is a merchant town, surely they'd understand everything about hired caravan guards."

"So you're saying that we should have brought our merchant to vouch for us."

"Yes," she said. Then she considered the whimpering man a second time, and she thought it better. "Well, no. It was a good riddance. That's why we should have _planned_."

"Would a letter or a sign of some sort be considered as proof of our affiliation?" Rizolvir suddenly wondered.

Entreri shook his head.

"No. It'd work if our affiliation had some significance, but that man was merely a peasant messenger. His name is pretty much meaningless. Besides, it's a little too late to get a recommendation letter from him."

"I see."

Yria sighed in frustration.

"I can't believe this. We've been making inhuman speed for three days straight, we have been attacked by the weirdest things ever all along the way, and now we can't grab a decent night's sleep? This is infuriating!"

Entreri shrugged.

"I told Jarlaxle that we'd be better off sleeping in the open again, but of course he had to try to talk his way into being accepted into the richest inn available. If you two had supported me, we'd have been all set a long time ago."

"No. Yria is right. A campfire is not acceptable when a roof is available," Rizolvir stated, his eyes going over to where Jarlaxle and the innkeeper were debating their stay in the building.

"Is Yria truly right, or do you want a roof over your head that badly?" Artemis couldn't resist the chance to let the drow know that he was aware of his weaknesses, and that he had no qualms about exploiting them.

The spellsword didn't raise to the bait – not that it was surprising, that one was about as impassive as himself –, starting to navigate his way through the crowd instead.

"Rizolvir? Where are you going?" Yria asked, confused when she saw the elf walk away and the human cringe silently in understanding of what was to come.

"I am going to help negotiations move along," he said in a calm and even tone, turning slightly to answer before going on.

Negotiations certainly could use all the help they could get.

Jarlaxle was a charmer by nature, a born fast-talker and a trained diplomat wrapped up in one package, but all his efforts were crashing against the solid wall of the innkeeper's mindset. It would have been interesting to note the wonderful barrier stubbornness and a narrow mindset provided against persuasion, if Jarlaxle and his own interests weren't the test subjects.

When Rizolvir joined them, they were still discussing the matter of service and payment, and the conditions offered by the man – no service whatsoever, and no drow gold accepted as payment – hadn't changed a bit from the ones offered to them when they first arrived, a good while before.

Apparently, the good innkeeper hadn't heard about their heroic actions in Beregost, and the claims of the group's magnanimous deeds weren't moving him in the least.

And though the spellsword was confident that, given time, Jarlaxle would find acceptance for the group – or would bore the innkeeper to the point of not caring whether they stayed or not –, they didn't have more time to spare. Rest was mandatory, as Yria had pointed out.

Rizolvir stepped up to the bar, standing casually besides the other drow male, and pulled back his cowl, allowing the taller human a good view of his race.

Incidentally, doing so also caused his piwafwi to fall open, letting the other appreciate the two deadly, powerful weapons hanging from his hips.

"We shall be staying here," he announced.

"Are you threatening me?" the man asked, narrowing his eyes and staring hateful daggers at the newly arrived drow.

"Not at all. I was simply informing you of the arrangements that must be made," the spellsword answered. "I apologize if you misunderstood: please, allow me to explain the existing difference to avoid future problems in communication."

The barman barely had time to register Rizolvir's words before the drow sprang forward in a feline movement, closing in on the man with lightning speed. With a thought, the drow called upon his own nature and summoned a burst of harmless faery fire to dance in the fingertips of his hand, which was trust right under the nose of the surprised human.

Of course, said surprised human had no means of knowing that it was harmless, and there was nothing about the dark elf's demeanor that even suggested so: ruby eyes held a malicious stare, and fine lips were twisted in a mocking sneer. For all he knew, he was staring death in the face.

And Rizolvir made sure to reinforce this impression when he spoke next, his voice low and calm and dripping an insidious venom that would surely haunt the innkeeper's dreams for many dark, silent nights to come.

"Give us your best rooms and I will kill you. Dare to refuse me, and I will ensure that you live for a long, long time."

Then, as soon as it had appeared, the faery fire was gone and in place of the murderous drow there was just a polite, somewhat stoic dark elf.

The only clue of what had transpired was the ashen complexion of the human, and the amused chortle of Jarlaxle.

"See what I meant?" the colorful mercenary said. "If we had bad intentions, you'd _know_."

"Of course," Rizolvir added, throwing a sideways look to the other drow and smirking. "As my trusted friend has already explained to you, we are just passing by, and we intend to hold the best interests of your town in mind while we stay here."

The innkeeper still seemed to be unable to form any coherent words, so Jarlaxle decided to help him out.

"And now that this little misunderstanding is cleared, why don't you show us to our room? I'm sure that you'll have time to prepare something for dinner while we take off the dust of the road!"

The man was still silent. He could only nod vigorously, and stumble his way out from behind the bar and towards the stairs, his skin an unhealthy white tone.

Jarlaxle tipped his hat to Rizolvir before following suit.

"Not bad, I admit it. Good old drow charm always works wonders, doesn't it?"

The former smith smirked.

"It does have its benefits as a backup tactic, mostly when the victim proves to be unable to appreciate finesse."

o O o

Cleaned, dined, and well on their way to be rested, things looked quite different. Besides, their host had been kind enough to give the group the best set of rooms available in the inn, so the four of them were surrounded by more comfort that they had been able to enjoy in quite a long while.

They had a small common space with a couch, two stuffed chairs, and a fireplace; the wooden floor was covered by warm hand woven rugs, and there was a small balcony out over the road. The lounge had two doors, which gave way to two double rooms with soft beds and clean sheets and the rooms had windows that opened to the backyard of the inn, too, so the whole set promised to be luminous and lively during daytime.

This disposition had given them a small problem, though, that had been solved by one Rizolvir 'sleeping' away sitting on the couch.

Because he wasn't going to put foot in the same room as Yria unless things between them changed, and he sure as hell was not going to allow anyone else to do so, which had left him stranded in the couch, alternating between Reverie and contemplation of the fire's embers in the fireplace.

In both states, he was able to muse. His was a strange situation, but he couldn't find it in him to complain. Though his 'House' had grown, he still was the first male, and he had every confidence that he'd become Patron whenever Yria decided to fill the role. He had gained much power since leaving Lith My'athar: both his combat skills and his station had improved greatly, and he cherished and enjoyed every bit of that power.

What surprised him was that he relished his position beyond the power it granted him, and what confused him was the undefined, fleeting feeling of wanting to reach the Patron title for reasons beyond said title.

It stunned him that he didn't want the name; he actually coveted the responsibilities. Even though he knew it was painful, sometimes disgusting, and degrading more often than not, he still wanted it.

Rizolvir sighed. Something was definitely wrong with him. And this point was only proven further when the thought of picking Enserric up for some insight actually entered his mind.

However, when he did pick up the blade later on, it was not to confer with it.

The drow cursed and vaulted over the couch, Enserric and his secondary blade both drawn as he charged the door to Yria's room.

Or rather, tried to, because the scream that had made him jump into motion was followed shortly by a barrage of small, pulsating projectiles of raw power that took away the door – and a good chunk of the wall.

The agile dark elf jumped over the debris and stopped cold when his rush met nothing.

There was no body on the floor, no body behind the curtain of flying splinters, no body inside the room, where only a very freaked, very wide-eyed Yria met his scrutiny.

The was no time to ponder the mystery, though, because the dark elf felt a hint of movement behind him, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was dead.

Only that the blow never came, and as suddenly as the presence had come, it disappeared.

On the other side of the room, Jarlaxle cursed. He had managed to get a view of their assailant, but a fat amount of good it had made to him.

It had disappeared from sight again as soon as his throwing dagger so much as touched it, and the projectile had kept its flight to imbed itself on the opposite wall.

The rogue called forth two more daggers and waited, his eyes scanning the corner where their foe had disappeared.

He could see nothing in the darkness, and instead he was startled by the clash of steel on steel: the creature – human in shape and size – had sprung at him from behind. Apparently out from a solid wall.

And it would have gotten him good if Entreri hadn't been so close at his heels – the assassin had been barely able to interpose Charon's Claw in the killing strike meant for his companion.

Entreri engaged the short sword used by the nightly visitant with his own blade, and maneuvered around until he could slash at his belly with his vampiric dagger.

His blade had yet to bit flesh when the unknown enemy disappeared again, not before the Calishite could catch a glimpse of white, detached eyes staring back at him.

The silent assailant didn't go too far, though, because almost immediately it appeared again, right behind Entreri and trusting his sword under the assassin's sword arm.

The attacking hand was grazed by an elongated dagger, and with a very human scream the figure was out of sight.

The next heartbeat had the group of four back against back in the middle of the room.

_It's not being half as shy this time, uh? Perhaps I'll get a taste now!_

Rizolvir nodded to his sword, and passed half the comment along.

"Our pursuer from the Trail seems to have been emboldened."

Entreri took his eyes away from the shadows surrounding them long enough to throw a disbelieving look at the drow.

"Really?" he grunted, all sarcasm. "I couldn't have figured that out for the life of me…"

Then his instincts took over, and he threw himself in a forward roll –

-effectively avoiding the slash delivered by an intruder coming in from the ceiling.

There was a bluish flash and another volley of raw magic was let loose, but only half the projectiles at most managed to hit their intended mark: the figure simply disappeared as soon as it touched the floor in the spot where Artemis had been standing a few seconds before.

"Damn it!" the Calishite cursed. "We can't stay like this! If we defend, we lose. Can't you come up with another brilliant idea to drive them away, instead of pointing out the obvious?"

"It is not that easy, Artemis," Jarlaxle commented while craning his neck to peer at the ceiling. "I seem to have left most of my trinkets back in our room."

Which was true. He and Artemis had been resting quite peacefully when the commotion had awakened them, and in their hurry to join the melee they had grabbed only the most obvious weapons.

Honestly, none of them had thought that their stalker could prove to be that tricky.

They had known that it was a shadowy creature, of course, but they hadn't suspected that it would be able to move _through_ shadows.

Because that was exactly what it was doing. There was no other explanation for the way it appeared and disappeared, going from one corner of the room to the other and constantly attacking their blind spots.

Jarlaxle frowned. For once, he cursed his habit of dimensional bags, passwords, traps, and overall security. He couldn't very well reach his pearls of light, stored away _somewhere_ – he wasn't too sure where exactly – and go trough all his magical lids without being open to an attack.

Too open.

Artemis seemed to have reached the same conclusion, too. As the assassin lunged to slash wildly at the intruder, who was venturing another attack and vanished upon contact, he swore and called out over his shoulder.

"I can't believe we don't have any other means of producing light! Hey, Yria! Curse it, kid, you're a sorceress! _Lighten this room up_!"

Which was a command that he shouldn't have barked, as he learnt immediately afterwards.

There were some tasks that were best served _not_ being done by Yria.

The next time their stalker appeared, right behind Jarlaxle with his blade aimed at the nape of the dark elf's neck, all shadows were banished.

It was only a moment of blinding white, but it was enough for Entreri and Charon's Claw sunk into the side of the persistent assailant to the hilt, the strength behind the blow making him – because it turned out to be a he – go tumbling down like broken doll.

Then, the heat caught up with the light, and a huge explosion shook the entire building.

When the shadows returned and the smoke cleared, they had a grayish corpse in their mist, and one missing wall in their room.

Stars twinkled down upon them, and Artemis disengaged his blade.

"You were _born_ over the top, weren't you?", he deadpanned.

"Sorry."

Artemis frowned and shook his head.

"Don't apologize to me. The only problem is that now there's no way we can talk ourselves into an inn again. It was you who wanted to sleep indoors that badly, so apologize to yourself."

Yria didn't look happy at all. A life without inn comfort was a bit too much to bear.

"But it wasn't my fault!"

Three pairs of eyes stared at her, and then at the blown-up wall. Even Rizolvir was finding the task of explaining the gaping hole away a tad too difficult.

"Okay, yes, that _is_ my hole. But come on, it was self-defense! We needed light!"

"Has anyone ever explained to her the differences between fire and light?" Entreri wondered aloud while kneeling down to examine the corpse.

"_Fire_ gives _light_, I'll have you know," the small sorceress huffed, hands planted on her hips.

"_Light_ doesn't take walls off."

"A rather inconvenient side effect, that's all."

"A hole big enough for a man to ride his horse through is _not_ a side effect."

"A man can't ride his horse through the wall of a three-story room."

Artemis was silent for a few heartbeats, carefully considering the body on the floor and the lethal wound he had inflicted on it. Then, he finally looked up.

"That's an absurd argument."

"It's not. It shut you up, didn't it?"

"You are going to get the last word in, right?"

"Yep."

"And of course, you're not going to accept the blame no matter what."

"Blame? What blame?"

In situations like this, Artemis had to choose dark amusement or else he risked being desperate. So he snorted.

"You're just like Jarlaxle."

Yria looked the drow over, openly appraising him. Then she nodded to herself, smiled brightly at the sour-looking assassin, and said,

"Thank you! Now, shall we pick clean that corpse?"

The small woman knelt besides the body opposite from the Calishite and started to rummage through pockets and clothing with a cheerful air about her that was just _wrong._ Entreri, though, didn't react and just sat there dumbfounded.

"… It was _not_ a compliment," he said at length.

"Artemis! I take offence to that!" Jarlaxle exclaimed. "After all, I _am_ a handsome, fashionable mercenary of great mental attributes, incredible prowess and unstoppable charisma! Anyone should feel complimented when compared to me."

"You're a crazy bastard, and tacky to boot. It was an obvious insult."

That was a great moment for Rizolvir to step in and stop matters before they escalated beyond friendly banter. Usually, this kind of diplomatic mission was Yria's job, but when she was looting, erm, that is, _investigating_, all other concerns were erased from her mind.

Besides, the drow spellsword wasn't sure he'd be able to remain neutral for too long if Entreri kept up his aggressive comments.

"Whether Jarlaxle's wardrobe is slightly ahead of times or not is not our concern. We should figure out who is attacking us, and we should come up with a safer method to dispose of future assassins, in case more are sent after us in light of tonight's failure."

Artemis scowled deeply – more so than usual – but in the end he let the discussion go and turned his attention back to the body. Jarlaxle winked his visible eye and made a subtle hand-signal to Rizolvir, who smirked in turn.

It was the first time in the former smith's long life that he was awarded a drow thumbs-up.

Good thing that he was momentarily distracted and didn't catch Artemis smacking Yria's hand away, too.

"Don't go pocketing things before knowing if they are dangerous!" the assassin hissed.

"It's just a ring. And besides, I was going to _store_ it, not to _use_ it."

"Pouting like that at a lethal trap won't save your life," the man said coldly, his gaze issuing a clear warning before he let go of the sorceress' wrist.

Jarlaxle wanted to comment on the exchange oh so badly, but wisely he kept quiet and continued to oversee the investigations.

After all, he had just been routed from a verbal fight with the assassin… and pointing out that the man _cared_ would only serve to antagonize both Entreri and Rizolvir. Because Entreri was already fed up for the day and he was just starting to get along with the other drow male, he knew it was better to leave the moment alone.

It didn't matter, teasing opportunities would surely be found aplenty soon enough. And if they weren't, he was an elf, so he had a lot of time to wait. And if that still didn't work… he was Jarlaxle, so he had both the ability and the inclination to manufacture all kinds of embarrassing moments himself…

"Jarlaxle," he was startled out of his thoughts by the very man who occupied them, "you might want to see this."

"What is it, Artemis? That wound is bothering you something awful, isn't it?"

"That's because it doesn't bleed."

"What?" the drow rogue stepped forward and bent to examine the huge tear himself.

Artemis was right. It wasn't bleeding… it was oozing a dark ichor that he'd rather not touch if he could help it. It seemed heavy and oily, and it was impregnating the floor and leaving a good sized mark on it.

It didn't smell too good, either.

"Aha," he said. "A clue."

"I take it this clue doesn't say much to you, then."

Jarlaxle had the decency to look sheepish at Entreri's comment.

"Not much, no. I'd have to… ah… examine it more thoroughly."

"I know this is an outsider," Rizolvir spoke up, looking on the crowded corpse from a distance. "I might be able to determine a few more things if you will allow me to see it."

Entreri assumed that it was a wizard thing, so he stepped back giving the other room to work – and he made sure to unglue Yria from the body, too. If they wanted answers, they didn't need a distracted wizard to look for them.

Jarlaxle stepped back too, but he gave the spellsword a knowing look, which Rizolvir did his very best to ignore.

The former smith knelt down and took a good look at the wound. It was indeed disgusting.

"_Are you sure you want a taste?"_

_It doesn't _look_ tasty, and it does smell funny, but… Have you heard about alternative cuisine? You'd never know how good a purple worm tastes if you just trusted its putrid smell, so…_

"_Do spare me the details, if it is all the same to you."_

Hiding the repulsion he felt under his calm, impassive expression, the drow dipped his fingertips into the wound. He let the ichor flowing out soak his skin, and he rubbed the substance between his thumb and forefinger under the disgusted stares of this three companions.

If they noticed, no one commented or found surprising the fact that his other hand was tightly closed over a still drawn longsword.

_Argh. No, it seems there was no gourmet treat hiding behind the smell. _

"_Too bad. I did ask if you were sure. What can you tell me now?"_

_Beyond the fact that it's stale?_

"_I do not believe those side notes will help us in a fight, so yes. I want something beyond that fact."_

_Alright, let's see. It tasted awfully corrupt. You'd think there's some human in there, but somewhere along the way it has gone soooo bad that now the flavor's just a shadow of its former richness._

"_Could you spare me the riddles this once?"_

_No way. That's where all the fun of this exercise lies. Come on, think a little harder pal._

Rizolvir sighed and went over the sword's answer again. Human but…

"_Demiplane of Shadow?"_

_You're one smart drow. I'm so proud of you. _

"_It does explain the ability it had to move and strike so swiftly," _and aloud, he said:

"This is an outsider from the demiplane of Shadow. It is superposed to the Prime Material, which would explain why a summons was not necessary."

Jarlaxle narrowed his uncovered eye and Entreri nodded, pensive.

"It'd also explain the combat strategy, wouldn't it?"

_Ah, come on, tell them about the human taste too. _

"_I shall not say that it tastes human-like."_

_But it is important!_

Rizolvir frowned and sent a mental glare to his sword, but he passed the information along.

Slightly edited, of course.

"And it appears to be related to humans in some way."

_In a close way_, Enserric suggested, and Rizolvir had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

"... Related in a close way."

_Much better. That should be enough. And now, as a special tidbit just for you… This thing is quite similar to the golem we fought not so long ago. The same kind of lingering aftertaste, you know?_

"_Duly noted."_

"Can I go back to examine it now, Artemis?" Yria's voice said, bringing the drow back to the outside world.

"To pilfer, you mean. Do as it pleases you," the assassin answered, giving up on her altogether.

"It's not that. It's that… this is familiar."

"This was your acquaintance?" the usually jovial Jarlaxle asked, a frown marring his ebony features as he carefully toed the still body.

"No, not at all. More like… Humans and shadows and this tactics… I think I have seen it before."

The small girl was confused herself, and she resumed her methodical search of the body.

A clear view of the grayish skin and the white open eyes, along with the mention of the Shadow plane, jolted a few old memories of hers.

They were memories of a gambit long past, of something she had done before. Of the beginning of it all, in a way. It felt like another lifetime entirely, but everything was coming back at lightening speed.

She overlooked the dead man's rings and magical trinkets as she searched him frantically, only stopping when her fingers closed upon a small, angular stone hidden in one of the pockets. Carefully she pulled it out – it was dark. No, it was beyond dark: its blackness ate away the light surrounding it and the shadows swirled around it like a miniature maelstrom.

She knew what it was. A shadow gem.

She looked up into the concerned faces of her three companions.

"Shadovar," she said. "The last Netherese."

* * *

A/N: _That was a long chapter… Quite packed, too. And yes, I know: this is where the cannon flunk appears. I am aware that Shadovar are dealt with in _Realms of Shadow_ and in_ Return of the Archwizards_, but unfortunately I haven't been able to get my hands on either of those works. So let's imagine that this story takes place before those other ones, let's hope that what I do doesn't really interfere with cannon, and let's forgive me. Pretty pretty please? (insert puppy look and pleading eyes here) Hopefully you'll still enjoy the fiction. And now, how about a review to let me know how this latest installment went?_


	4. Shadows of the past

A/N: _I'm sorry this chapter took a bit too long – exams period coupled with unfinished university projects got in the way. I'll spare you the rant, though: instead, I'll let you enjoy this latest installment. Read, and leave me your thoughts afterwards._

**

* * *

**

Shadows of the past

The sky outside was black, with small diamond-like stars shining down on them through the empty space.

It was a beautiful night, but Artemis Entreri was feeling too restless to admire it – he didn't even want to sit down as the rest of his companions to listen to the tale Yria was telling.

He stayed on his feet, his hand never straying from Charon's Claw pommel, his brow furrowed much deeper than usual. Occasionally he paced around the common area, mindful of the corpse that still lay there, untouched and apparently forgotten, and he would throw furtive glances to the shadows and the outside of the building.

It was probably the most patent manifestation of discomfort he had allowed himself for years – decades, even. After all, concern was weakness and if you let your enemies see your weaknesses in the world of Calimshan's pashas, then you were as good as dead.

That alone said something about how far from Calimport and Pasha Basadoni he had come.

But the fact that he was showing distress didn't mean that he wasn't Artemis Entreri, the most deadly assassin a city of assassins had known in a long time. So he paced, and his hand caressed his powerful sword, and meanwhile his mind registered every last one of Yria's words, every reaction of Jarlaxle, every small change of body language of Rizolvir.

And for the moment, what he was registering was doing very little to calm him down.

"No one really knew what it was," Yria was saying, "but Master Drogan and that Harper agent that suddenly showed up agreed that it was dangerous, so they got this funny idea about sending _me_ to retrieve it. It makes you wonder, that they chose a barely qualified girl right out of an 'adventuring school' to carry out what was supposed to be an important mission… I mean, what chances did I actually have of succeeding? It was suicidal!"

"So why did you agree? You wanted to prove your worth to your teacher or just wanted to play the hero?" Jarlaxle asked.

Shadovar still hadn't entered the story, which was pretty much a recollection of Yria's adolescent days, but the drow mercenary lent her half an ear anyway and prompted the girl to continue, letting her follow her own rhythm.

After all, he could use this interlude to think plans and bounce ideas of his own.

Yria muttered something unintelligible, and the rogue had to ask,

"What?"

"I said, I just wanted to get the item. If it was that powerful, it'd be a gold mine… Anyway, it was destroyed so the reasons here don't matter," she answered, clearly wanting to avoid the topic.

Jarlaxle smiled amused in spite of the current situation, and Rizolvir nodded to himself: he hadn't erred when he got her measure, what seemed a long time ago.

"So," the petite sorceress continued her story, "I chased the thief. Who happened to be a meduse. Who happened to… ah, petrify me. And while I was solid rock, she kind of used the item to power up the Netherese city of Undretide."

Entreri stopped his pacing for a moment and sent a questioning look Yria's way.

"You were adventuring alone and you got petrified. And somehow, you still managed to have the effect reversed and save the day?"

Yria was thoughtful for a moment before answering.

"Well, if you put it like that, then… yes, that's what happened."

"There shouldn't be people this lucky around," Entreri said, shaking his head. "You hoard all the good luck available. My portion included."

"Artemis, don't be like that!" Jarlaxle said, amused at the sudden morose bitterness of his companion. "You do have a good share of luck in life, too! Just think about the countless times there's been impossible odds, and you still have managed to come out on top!"

"That was preparation, not luck. I don't have luck: I've been stuck with you, and that's proof enough," the Calishite said, pointing an accusing finger at the one eyed dark elf.

Rizolvir sighed. There they go again, he thought. But he was too interested in the story and the Shadovar to let them sidetrack the conversation, however entertaining it might be, so he spoke up, softly addressing Yria – who was looking slightly miffed at having lost the spotlight.

"How did you overcome the effects of petrifaction, Yria? If my lore is not mistaken, the stare of a medusa is an ability with permanent consequences?"

Yria smiled brightly again, and rubbed the back of her head. She was glad to be asked, but this was the humiliating bit.

"Well, there was this caravan of lizard-like folk who ended up trapped in Undretide. They found me, and they gave me a collar that nullified the enchantment."

It sounded pretty good like that, the sorceress thought. There was no need to tell them that it had been a caravan of slavers, that they used such collars because petrified merchandise didn't require water in the desert, and that she had had to perform a ridiculously difficult task in order to regain her freedom. No, no need at all.

"So then I was alive once again, but I was trapped in Undretide – and the city was rising to the skies, to fly like it used to do back in the times of the Netherese Empire. Only that the city was kind of old, and lacking in the maintenance department, so there was no way it could fly smoothly. Besides, I'm sure that the medusa didn't know the first thing about piloting an airborne city. We were going to crash."

"Which is why you were forced to stop her," Jarlaxle supplied.

He had already estimated how many light-producing trinkets he had, how expensive and how difficult it would be to acquire new ones and how each of them should be employed if a Shadovar attacked them again.

After his brief contribution to the conversation, he went on to design some kind of trap that would prevent plane shifting around his person.

"Exactly," the girl said, oblivious to the fact that the bald drow was only giving her a fraction of his attention. "Only problem was that to get to her, I had to open a door that required of three items – the Three Winds, they were called. One of them was in a library, and acquiring it was amazing. I mean, I had to _read_ all this stories and then _write_ a fitting end for them, and then…"

Yria trailed off in face of the intense glare Artemis was sending her. She could feel his eyes piercing her. It was a glare of epic proportions… the kind of glare even she had to acknowledge in one way or another.

She gave a little cough.

"But I digress. The important thing is that another Wind was in the graveyard, and the last one was in the Archwizard's tower. Which is where I found the Shadovar."

Jarlaxle stopped trying to figure out how to make his infamous green goo glue things that were in parallel planes of existence, and turned all of his attention to the conversation.

He wasn't the only one. Entreri stopped pacing altogether and approached the couch where the sorceress sat, and Rizolvir leaned forth in his seat.

"Were they somehow awakened by the reactivation of the city's magic?" he asked, his wizard training kicking in as he tried to puzzle the mystery.

Yria pondered his comment.

"Not really. They aren't the inhabitants of Undretide, but of its rival city – it was called Shade. The reactivation of the city did alert them, though, and they moved through the plane of Shadow to the wizard's tower to see what had happened."

"They wanted to get their hands on the artifact that had reawakened the city then," Jarlaxle quickly surmised.

"Perhaps," Yria shrugged. "But from what I know, their city is still fully functional. I think they wanted the wizard's tower instead."

"So they were there stealing artifacts and documents," Entreri suggested, finally relenting to sitting down.

"No. They were stealing the tower. As in, the whole tower."

"You mean to say _the_ tower? Stone and all?" the assassin's eyes opened like saucers. He had heard of all kinds of thieving stunts, and he had pulled a few of them himself, but he had never heard of a stolen building.

Jarlaxle's eyes were also wide open, but for different reasons.

"How does one go about doing that?" he asked enthusiastically.

Artemis glanced over and cursed when he recognized the look. Jarlaxle was getting funny ideas – again.

"But the human Empire known as Netheril disappeared," Rizolvir cut in, apparently intent on staying in topic. "I have been taught that they were annihilated in a war against an Underdark people. So how did this city of Shade survive?"

"Netheril disappeared because of their flying cities," Yria explained, recalling the explanation she herself had received when asking, back in the deserted corridors of Undretide. "There was a moment in which magic simply disappeared from the world, and though it was very short, it had all cities plummeting down to earth. Shade flew higher than the other cities, though, because their Archwizard was a bit paranoid about safe flying measures, so when magic was restored they still had time to use a spell before collapsing: they transferred the whole city to the demiplane of Shadow.

"Once human, the Netherese have since then lived on over there, becoming aligned to their new native plane in the process. The end result of this change are the Shadovar," she made a gesture towards the body of the dead assassin. "They were stealing the whole tower of Undretide, with all its secrets intact, by moving it into the Shadow demiplane. Stone by stone."

Rizolvir nodded, and Artemis sat back to digest this information.

It seemed that they had gotten into something quite big this time around, if these last descendants of Netheril were involved.

Only Jarlaxle thought to ask something of importance in the tense moments of realization that followed the story.

"How did you learn all this about Shade and the Netherese?" the drow mercenary said.

Yria had been hoping to avoid that question. But there was no navigating around it, so she just sighed and gave her most honest answer.

"The Archwizard's pet told me," she confessed.

Jarlaxle didn't blink. Rizolvir was frozen.

Entreri leaned forward again as quickly as a tightly coiled spring.

"A _pet_ told you?" he asked, as if he was having difficulty digesting those words.

"Yes."

"The pet of an _Archwizard_?"

"Yup."

"Who has been _dead_ for the last few millennia?"

"That would be him, yes."

"And his _pet_ told you all that?"

"… It was a badger."

Artemis fell back on his seat.

"We're reduced to relying on information provided by a speaking badger several thousand years old," he blinked a few times and then turned a hard stare onto Jarlaxle.

"This is your fault," he said. "You wanted to take the book. You talked that good for nothing merchant into _paying_ us for taking the book away from his caravan as a security measure. You've dragged me into this mess."

The assassin reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if trying to stall an incoming headache, and then felt the need to add,

"I hate you."

Jarlaxle chuckled nervously.

"Now, now, Artemis, no need to be overly dramatic. Something good came of that deal: we did get rid of Master Folrn, didn't we?"

Entreri gave him a look that said clearly that he wasn't convinced in the least, and Jarlaxle had to turn his charm on full force in order to survive the daggers that were being glared his way.

"Artemis! You need a bit of a positive outlook in life! Attitude is everything, my friend! And let me inform you that your attitude is not going to take you anywhere anytime soon!"

Yria nodded her agreement.

"I already told him," she said. "Positive thinking is the way to go, but he won't listen."

"I am not being overly dramatic and I'm not being pessimistic. I am the voice of reason here. Your crazy schemes are going to get us killed," the Calishite turned to the one other sensible person in the group for a supporting opinion, but unfortunately asking Rizolvir to argue directly with Yria was a bit too much.

The drow just shrugged, and said:

"If I recall correctly, Jarlaxle did ask your opinion concerning the ownership of the book. If you were adverse to the idea, you should have expressed your position at that moment."

Entreri glared at Rizolvir, feeling strangely betrayed, and Jarlaxle sighed dramatically.

"Alright, Artemis. I'll immediately pursue contrasted information about the Shades and about this book that now lies in our possession, and I will not stop inquiring until you're assured that the knowledge we have is sound and useful. This way, I hope to prove to you that recklessness is the furthest thing from my behavior, and that I can, and will, take responsibility over the consequences of my actions, even if those actions were taken with fully informed consent of the rest of the group."

The assassin snorted.

"You do that," he said, disbelievingly.

Jarlaxle grinned widely and bowed. Then, the drow picked up his cloak and plopped his huge purple hat in his head.

"Well then, I'll see you all again in the morning."

"It's the wee hours of the morning, Jarlaxle," Yria commented, innocently. "Where are you going at this time? I'm sure investigation can wait!"

The rogue walked to the huge hole opened in their wall and looked down, calculating where he wanted to land. Then, he turned with a flourish of his cape and a bright grin, tipping his hat to the sorceress.

"But I wouldn't dare to make Artemis wait any longer!" he said. "Besides, worry not: I find the moon and the starlight to be… most inspiring!"

By the time his last words were uttered, he was already out of sight. Yria looked confused, but when she looked to Rizolvir the drow made a reassuring gesture. The wizard was positive that Jarlaxle was hiding some contact from the Underdark, so he could make an educated guess on what the other mercenary was going to do – and why it was so appropriate to do it at night.

Entreri, for his part, didn't have to guess anything. He knew where Jarlaxle was headed.

And it pissed him off tremendously to have given the drow an excuse to disappear and call forth his Bregan D'aerthe.

Because in the Calishite's mind, there was no doubt that Jarlaxle was going to find a secluded spot to summon Kimmuriel, and while he had to admit that the psion could probably find out things more quickly than them, he hated the arrangement.

He hated to get an Entreri-hating Kimmuriel involved, he hated to depend on Bregan D'aerthe, and he hated to be roped into _another_ crazy adventure with unknown stakes.

More than anything else, though, he hated the way Jarlaxle had hidden the nature of his investigations even though it was obvious to the assassin, and he hated the way he had been manipulated to provide an alibi for a plan that the mercenary had surely developed quite beforehand.

"We're in over our heads," he commented. Then, turning to Yria, he asked, "Do you really think the information you've got about Shade is reliable?"

Yria brought her knees up to her chest and nodded.

"What the badger told me about Undretide was true, so… I guess it'd tell me the truth about the outsiders who were stealing his sleeping quarters."

"Whatever the case, there is nothing else we can accomplish by pondering upon it," Rizolvir commented. "I believe we should worry about different matters until Jarlaxle comes back to share his discoveries."

Entreri allowed his gaze to drift to the Shadovar corpse. The mortal wound had stopped oozing, but the spots left by the inky blood were still fresh.

"You're right for once, drow. We need to get rid of this."

"Of course. But I believe we would be better served thinking up an excuse for _that_ first."

Yria and Artemis followed the pointing ebon finger to the missing wall. Yria frowned in confusion.

"Oh, that… Now that you mention it, it must have been quite the explosion to take off such a great chunk of masonry. There is no way for it to have been unnoticed, right?"

Entreri snorted.

"I don't see why not. So the view you get from the main street of the biggest inn in town is a huge blown-up wall. Who would bother to notice such a thing, after all?"

"Hey! Believe it or not, I just so happen to be able to understand sarcasm!"

"You had me fooled," the Calishite said, smirking darkly.

"Fooling you is not a difficult task," Rizolvir intervened, narrowing his ruby eyes.

"Many have died for making that assumption."

"Many have died for showing far more respect than you."

"So!" Yria spoke up, loudly enough for both males to reluctantly back off. "If they have noticed, I wonder why nobody has come to ask what happened yet?"

Entreri raised an eyebrow, but refrained from commenting.

Four strangers, two of them drow, had barged into the main inn of town. Then, they had intimidated their way into getting the best rooms available. Then, somehow, they had made a ruckus in their room. And then, they had ended the fight by blowing off a stone wall.

Why wouldn't anyone just knock on the door and ask if everything was fine?

Boulder-sized debris blocked the main street in town, completely impeding carts from crossing and seriously bothering any pedestrian trying to make way. The stone work of the inn where the debris had originated from was still smoldering, and some rocks had actually melted. Furthermore, the explosion had been felt in the entire building, and surely in the entire square as well.

Why wouldn't anyone come to see what had provoked such disturbance?

There were a lot of possible reasons, but most likely, it was because Greenest would need a little more time to put together its army.

o O o

Jarlaxle stored away his silvery tube as soon as the bluish dimensional door opened a couple of paces away from him, and did his best to hide the wide smile that crept onto his features when Kimmuriel stepped out.

The psion's cold features were carefully arranged in a display of boredom mixed in with a healthy amount of disgust at having been called upon.

"Jarlaxle," he said, giving just the barest hint of a nod by way of greeting.

"Why, Kimmuriel! So nice to see you! How are you faring lately?"

The bald drow knew that he was in a bit of a tight bind, and that he should address his business diligently, but he just couldn't help the need to poke his particular brand of fun at Kimmuriel.

And of course, the former Oblodra rose to the bait.

"It was you who made me come," he said, his perfect brow furrowing ever so slightly in annoyance. "And I must add that I wasn't expecting to see you again this soon."

Jarlaxle chuckled. All their meetings in the surface started with a slight variation of the very same conversation: the psion heeded the call, the rogue attempted to make small talk, the psion showed off his incredibly sour mood, the rogue made whatever request he wanted to make in the first place.

Truth be told, the Baenre scion enjoyed the moments of 'friendly banter', but there was a part of him that hoped to see a different look in his lieutenant's face. To him, the surface was a place of freedom and possibilities, and so he wanted his band to think – and act – accordingly. Kimmuriel, on his part, hated the strange habit of 'socializing' developed by his former master, and was waiting eagerly for the folly to end so that he could cut all ties with the accursed surface.

Neither day seemed to be coming anytime soon, though, so for the moment Jarlaxle kept wandering about and summoning Kimmuriel to the oddest places, and Kimmuriel kept heeding his call with the barely suppressed sigh of a martyr.

Which didn't mean that they'd not try to change the status quo.

"Ah, you shouldn't complain so much. Just enjoy the moment to be reunited with an old friend, away from the responsibilities of Bregan D'aerthe! And look, isn't this town cozy and charming?"

Jarlaxle was still his superior in some level, so the psion failed to mention that there was no 'old friend' that he could see, that he far preferred to relax in his luxurious private bath, and that he found the way mud stuck to his boots to be all but charming.

It wasn't like the rogue didn't _know_, anyway.

"What do you want from me this time, Jarlaxle?"

"Why, I'm hurt. How can you assume that I summon you for your services?"

"Don't you always."

Jarlaxle smiled with an impish gleam in his eyes and tipped his hat to the other dark elf.

"Short and to the chase, as always. I see that power hasn't changed you at all."

"Which is why I'm still alive."

"Indeed," the rogue allowed himself a small laugh. He'd always found his lieutenant's dryness a great source of humor. "I'm glad to see your pragmatism is intact: you're going to find it most useful to complete the task I want to charge you with."

"What do you want from me, I ask again."

Jarlaxle shrugged and reached inside his cloak. After a bit of patting and fumbling, he produced a thin leather-bound book.

"Information, of course. I want you to take this back to headquarters and find out what it is about. Independently, I want you to gather whatever knowledge you can about the old Netherese, the city of Shade, and the so-called Shadovar."

Kimmuriel took the proffered book and turned it over in his graceful hands.

"What game are you playing at now, Jarlaxle? Illefari ruins first, and now you're involved with the Netherese? I believe you're plunging us deeper than we should go."

"Nonsense," the rogue said dismissively. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

The psion smiled wryly.

"I'm not expected to find adventure. I'm expected to keep Bregan D'aerthe from destruction."

"The spirit of Bregan D'aerthe is not to survive, but to thrive. You must strive to profit!"

"Profit from last venture is to make an appearance yet."

Jarlaxle sighed exaggeratedly. He _so_ hated it when Kimmuriel chose to play difficult.

"The book isn't netherese," he confessed, "it comes from Candlekeep. It was expected to go towards Berdusk, but the merchant taking it there was… ah… dispirited, and he charged us with the task instead. I'm not going to travel with something I know nothing about!"

"More like, you're not going to part with anything until you're sure that it is not powerful enough."

"If you want to put it like that," the rogue acknowledged.

"And so you choose to pull Bregan D'aerthe into it."

"I just want information," Jarlaxle shrugged. "And I know you actually will cherish the opportunity to lock yourself away and study for a bit. Call it 'mutual benefit', if you will. Or would you rather set up a Future Market?"

That did the trick.

The unimpressive looking book disappeared in Kimmuriel's person.

"I'll look into it."

"That's so kind of you!" Jarlaxle said, with a wink and an amused smile. "I'll call you back in a few days to see what you've learned, then. And don't forget to look into the Shade stuff!"

"Of course I won't," Kimmuriel said stiffly, as if offended by the mere idea that his prodigious mind could possibly overlook anything at all.

Jarlaxle smiled and waited till the psion crossed his dimensional door, and then he stared for a few moments longer while the bluish glow vanished, thinking.

Kimmuriel was as loyal as a drow came. He was devoted to Bregan D'aerthe, because it was the way to preserve his own life and status, and he disliked the leader position enough to keep doing whatever Jarlaxle told him to. Plus, the psion wasn't a fool, and he knew that if he got to like the band too much, if he tried to take it away from Jarlaxle, the Baenre son would just waltz back to Menzoberranzan, pull a couple of strings here and there, and then there would be Kimmuriel no more.

All in all, he was the perfect elf for the job.

Sometimes, though, his aversion to unnecessary risks could be so very infuriating.

Good thing that Jarlaxle knew how to use his pride and his own intelligence to help him see things from another perspective from time to time, or else all the little side-projects would be dead before being even formulated.

As a matter of fact, if it weren't so easy to bait the psion into a 'bet you can't do it' kind of challenge, then Jarlaxle would surely have had to pay for half of his arsenal.

Yes, Kimmuriel was an extremely capable and reliable subordinate… but sometimes he was just too boring!

Dawn started to break, and with a satisfied smirk Jarlaxle pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning and started his leisure walk back to the inn, thinking that his lieutenant really needed to broaden up his mind.

After all, what could be the harm in investigating a book?


	5. Community service

A/N: _I've wanted to write this chapter for the longest time – since I started to plan out the series – and it wasn't supposed to look like this _at all_. (Stares down her computer extremely pissed) But I've tried to change it time and again, and it just refuses to improve… So I'm taking revenge on the non-collaborating plot and giving you… ah… 'this'. Please, read and let me know your opinions. Hopefully the chapter was somehow salvaged? - (Insert smiling, wishful face here)_

* * *

**Community service**

Jarlaxle arrived, and morning came, and still no one had confronted them about the damages done to the propriety.

Yria yawned and looked over to her companions. They were all tense and tired and they hadn't managed to put anything resembling an excuse together, but some stuff couldn't be helped. There were greater things at stake, after all.

Simply put, the showdown couldn't be delayed any longer.

"Breakfast," she said.

Entreri snorted, but Jarlaxle spoke before he could say anything scathing – after all, it was much too early to sour the day.

"Indeed! It does sound like a delicious perspective, don't you all agree?" he said.

He needn't have bothered. Rizolvir was already strapping his weapons in place and getting ready to go down, and Entreri was slowly and methodically following suit. Making sure to make his discontent obvious, but following suit nonetheless.

And Yria was bouncing out the door by the time he finished his sentence, so nobody appreciated his morning flourish.

The dark elf sighed in resignation, plopped his purple hat on, and followed the petite sorceress into the corridor and down the stairs.

Only that Yria hadn't gone down the stairs.

She had been halted in the corridor, and she didn't look one bit happy about it.

"Oh, dear," Jarlaxle said, almost wincing. The way the day was shaping up, his morning looked like it was going to be ruined sooner rather than later.

The suspicion only grew when he felt Artemis and Rizolvir striding out the room, the first glaring death and the second advancing on the intruders to deliver it.

However, the spellsword stopped reluctantly when Yria turned to look at them all over her shoulder, her eyes devious and her smile reaching scary proportions.

"Why, it seems they _are_ going to ask what was wrong, after all!" she said triumphantly.

Entreri caught her jab and thought about giving her a slight scare with a flying dagger, but then he decided that it was pointless and that he shouldn't let comments of any kind get to him. He didn't need to be upset now.

He needed steely resolution. He needed utter calmness in order to deal with the arising situation.

Because he had been wrong in his sarcastic assumptions the night before. Greenest hadn't put its army together.

It was worse by far.

They had put together a parliamentary committee.

And, as luck would have it, it proceeded to lead them to a meeting over breakfast, which went on for two hours straight.

Lunchtime was fast approaching, and still they were there, apparently having reached an obstacle in negotiations.

Yria sighed and made a conscious effort to look thoroughly non-threatening as she shoved another spoonful of overcooked mashed potatoes in her mouth. It wasn't her choice food to start the day, but the innkeeper had prepared it for free so she wasn't complaining.

She was about to start complaining at the way the parliamentary committee was failing to parley, though.

A brief look at her companions told her not to expect any help from them in getting conversations underway. Entreri was sitting in the furthest possible corner, his back against the wall and his glare of doom keeping the good people of Greenest a safe distance away. Rizolvir was as still as a statue, his eyes surveying their interlocutors in a discreet way, and his food untouched – it had proven impossible to make him believe that the clammy thing in his plate was actually edible. Jarlaxle, the only one with the inclination to do something, was drinking small sips from a tea cup as he waited for the show to unfold, looking deeply entertained.

No help whatsoever.

"So," the sorceress said, "it is a fine morning, isn't it?"

The five men on the opposite side of the table startled and stuttered. There was some elbowing and shoving, and then:

"Indeed, indeed it is."

"Why, I believe this to be the perfect moment to tell us with whom we're enjoying it!" she smiled reassuringly.

Still, the men startled.

Good grief.

It took twenty minutes of painstakingly interrogating the group to get them to say who they were: the major of Greenest, his chief advisor, the guard commander, the militia leader, and the most important farmer in town.

And though Yria was doing her very best to calm down the obviously scared bunch, her patience was quite volatile and was starting to run thin.

The fact that Jarlaxle was almost bursting with laugher wasn't helping, either: he kept doing weird grimaces when trying to hold back his mirth, and this worried the delegation to no end. Which in turn made Jarlaxle want to laugh harder.

Yria tried to suppress the urge to smack both parties senseless, and decided that she was done beating around the bush.

"Well, this has been a _wonderful_ way to kill the time, but I trust there was something you wanted to talk about?" she said, hoping to get the townspeople to the point.

Silence.

Then, finally, the commander of the guard spoke up. He seemed to be a no-nonsense kind of man, and he had been clearly ashamed by the way his superior had been acting.

"We have noted that you seem to be a highly prepared group," he started, throwing a scathing look at the cowering major.

"Yes, we are," Yria admitted. No point in denying the obvious.

"Also, it seems that you're currently not employed in protecting any of the passing caravans, but that your services are usually for hire."

Jarlaxle perked up at the mention of 'hire', and nodded. Yria figured that the information had been volunteered by Jarlaxle himself while he tried to secure their rooms the previous night, so she merely shrugged.

"So?"

"Greenest has been sitting in the Uldoon Trail for several decades now, and as you can see it is a prosperous city well known for its services as gateway for the Trade Way," the man explained, reaching up to comb his mustaches in a subconscious way. "All this time, our town has been a safe and fair stop in the route to the East. Of course, there have been bandits and the occasional marauders, but the Guard has always managed to deal with them, sometimes with the help of the militia…"

o O o

Mando smiled as he dismissed the image from his scrying mirror.

A couple of peasants was going back home after market day, the earnings of the day hidden in a small coffer below a pile of hay in the back of their cart. The only magical precaution they had taken was a small glyph on the coffer's lid, and though there was a spear under the driver's seat, it didn't look like the man was any good using it.

It was just another perfect hit for them.

"Rick," he said, waving a second man to come closer. "Our prey will be here in a short while."

The man, Rick, smiled and drew his poisonous short sword. He taped the blackish blade with his forefinger, and nodded at the information he was receiving.

The group had the right time to reach the road and prepare an ambush before the cart appeared on sight.

This was going to be so easy, Rick thought as he watched the oblivious pair of peasants going home.

Only that they'd never make it there. Just as the many other peasants and merchants they had waylaid before hadn't.

He made a gesture and Mando released his spell at the perfect moment.

A bolt of electricity shot forwards and hit the cart, breaking free the horse that was pulling it along. There was a scream, and the woman clung to the man for safety, making Rick snort.

As if this wasn't simple enough, that bitch was impeding the farmer's fighting arm.

"Well met," he said aloud, walking out from the shadows flanked by his crew and delighting in the look of terror the woman was giving him. "I must inform you that this road is under our protection, and that you need to pay the fee for using it. Give us the benefits you hide under the hay in your cart, and we will let you go," he lied through his teeth.

The man growled, obviously surprised at them knowing of the coffer, and the woman held onto his arm even more fiercely, as if her pathetic excuse for a husband could protect her from the dozen or so bandits that were closing in on them from all sides.

This was the part Rick liked the most: playing around with his prey, letting them feel the hopelessness of their situation, the certainty of what was about to happen to them.

He sought out Mando's eyes.

"Then again, it might not be enough, right? We might need to take your wife as well, so that you understand the importance of always paying tribute when using this road," he said, giving a lecherous grin to the cowering woman as he prowled ever closer to the cart.

The farmer tensed, but he said nothing. There was a moment of silence as Rick approached, as the band closed the circle around the immobilized cart, as Mando prepared a stunning spell to make sure the farmer stayed alive for as long as they wanted him to, that he saw as much as the band wanted him to see.

Then, there was a sneeze.

Followed closely by another, and a third, particularly loud one.

"Oh dear," the hay said, "it seems I'm allergic to this particular surface cereal."

"What?" Rick stopped short of reaching out for the woman, a look of utter confusion plain on his face.

The woman, all traces of fear gone from her face, rolled her eyes at no one in particular.

"Couldn't that have waited? We almost had it!" she said, letting go of the arm of her husband.

Mando, who was the smarter of the leading group, quickly understood that it was a trap and released his spell with a shout, hoping to get one of the 'farmers' out of commission.

The woman ducked to the side, but still she wouldn't have evaded his stunning bolt if her partner hadn't made a move.

The man's arm shot forward with lightening speed, and Mando's spell was cleanly caught in his right hand.

Then, the stranger's eyes sought out the wizard's, and Mando was paralyzed by the look of sheer murder found in the endless depths of those gray, lifeless orbs.

Even if he didn't know that he was staring into the face of none other than Artemis Entreri, he could tell that this man was going to be the last thing he ever saw.

The bandit wizard was so scared that he didn't even realize when his stunning spell was thrown right back at him.

Rick snapped out of his stupor when he realized that his group was without magic backup, and reached out for the woman – who had tumbled closer to him while trying to avoid Mando's spell, and she looked like suitable hostage material.

And as he did, he found himself without a hand to reach out with.

A figure had come out of nowhere in the blink of an eye, and a flash of steel severed the bandit's appendage even as he was starting to outstretch his fingers.

With a scream of pain, Rick clutched the bleeding stump and turned to see what had happened – and screamed again in terror.

A drow.

Malicious red eyes glared at him from a ebon face twisted in homicidal rage, and sharp blades wove a dance of death too fast for his human eyes to see.

Rick didn't even get to feel the cuts, and he was dead long before the dark elf let his corpse fall to the ground.

It wasn't a full minute into the fight, and the bandit group was already left without guidance, and in a most compromising situation.

Smart bandits would have put some effort into fleeing, but as it has been mentioned the smart one was Mando, who was out for the count, so the band tried to avenge their brutally murdered leader.

Only that any attempt at trying to sneak from behind on the drow responsible for the deed proved a difficult task – mostly when what was supposed to be a defenseless farmer's wife shot forth a fireball to prevent it.

There was a blinding light and it smelled of burned ozone, and when the explosion cleared the assaulting band's numbers had been halved.

Seven men still stood on the other side of the circle, and through the smoke they saw some huge purple monster who seemed to have been summoned by the wicked sorceress.

It rose several feet over the cart, and with a snapping movement of its talons started to rain deadly, poisonous dagger-like spikes down on them.

It dawned on the surviving bandits that it was time to retreat, but it was too late: veritable walls of ash had appeared out of nowhere, and a demonic blade kept popping in and out of the darkness, hitting true with deadly accuracy.

All in all, the whole fight was over in right under three minutes.

"Well, I'm _sorry_ if I can't control my allergy," Jarlaxle said morosely as he landed smoothly besides the cart, eyeing the hay with disgust.

His visible garnet eye was watery, his nose was starting to run, and he had the urge to scratch all over his body. He felt miserable, and for once he was actually looking the part.

Yria laughed openly, and the rogue was surprised to hear even the dark chuckle of Artemis.

"The great Jarlaxle, defeated by a hay cart," the assassin said, looking really amused.

The drow pouted.

"We should have gone along with _my_ plan instead!"

"It was ridiculous," Artemis deadpanned. "Not even these stupid bandits would have fallen for an open, abandoned chest filled with riches in the middle of the road."

"I don't see why not," Jarlaxle argued in as dignified a manner as he could while trying to remove all remnants of hay from his person. "I'd have checked it out."

Entreri stopped the cleaning of Charon's Claw long enough to stare at the drow, and then snorted.

"I'm not going to comment on that."

"Stop complaining, Jarlaxle," Yria managed to say when she controlled her laughter long enough to breath. "This plan wasn't so bad! Though I must say it's because of me it worked: your acting abilities suck, Artemis."

"You were the one almost breaking my arm."

"If I hadn't held onto it, you'd have stopped that lightening bolt with your gauntlet and would have blown our cover!"

"Did you want me to sit by and let them blow us apart? Besides, I don't know why I had to play the part of husband," he ranted, and silently Rizolvir agreed. "I don't look like a godsdamned farmer!"

Jarlaxle waved his hand dismissively.

"We've already gone through it, Artemis. You're human: they wouldn't have attacked a drow. They fear us…" the rogue glanced over at the remains of the bandit leader, and cocked his head to the side when he saw the damage. "And I'm tempted to say that with good reason! Tsk, tsk tsk… talk about going overboard…" he commented, toeing the body with a grimace before sighing and starting to rummage through the thief's pockets.

Entreri merely grunted at that: he still wasn't convinced. He turned his back on his drow friend and stalked towards the stunned mage, who was just starting to pull through the effects of the spell.

Jarlaxle and Yria might have been the ones accepting the job as a means to 'redeem their good name' in the face of Greenest community, but, as always, it was up to him to make sure that the job was properly done. That was why he had captured the wizard, and he had every intention of getting some information out of him.

And it'd better be good, because he was not going to go through that ridiculous trap scheming stage again – and really, how else were they going to find the accursed bandits when they could not track a stampede of camels through the mud?

But of course, far be it form Jarlaxle to turn down a job because they didn't have the abilities to do it. The drow rogue simply didn't believe in such a thing as not being qualified, and the assassin had to add that Yria wasn't much better in that department. Greenest major asks us to capture an organized group of bandits with high training and magical backup, and upon doing this we can evade responsibilities for threatening behavior and building demolishing? Why, yes, it'll our pleasure to help!

And so they had dragged him to the road where most attacks took place, and then had realized their lack in outdoors skills.

Which in turn had led to the ridiculous trap he had been forced to participate in - he _refused_ a repeat of that.

He neared the wizard with such a thunderous look in his face that the man, a crude fellow accustomed to all kinds of evil acts, felt the urge to go back to his stunned state to avoid the confrontation.

With a slight smirk, Rizolvir shook his head at the assassin's antics, wondering why the man was so intent on behaving as if he hated the world at large, and then turned to address more pressing matters.

Such as a certain sorceress' health.

"Yria?" he asked softly, making sure his tone was out of hearing range for his other two companions. "How are you feeling?"

It wasn't that he didn't trust her to be able to deal with dangerous situations, because he did, but still there had been something about the whole situation that had been deeply disturbing for him.

No matter how he looked at it, the idea of using her as bait didn't sit well with the drow for reasons unknown. And while having Entreri posing as her Patron had been an improvement on the alternative plan, wherein she was supposed to play the part of a lone rich maiden riding home, he still disliked the arrangement.

Not only because Entreri wasn't supposed to be the Patron, but because he objected to the very idea of Yria as bait: faking to be a harmless, scared human had gotten her too close to the bandit's disgusting clutches as it was, so who knew what could have happened if Jarlaxle's sneeze hadn't forced them all to act before time.

"I'm fine, really," she answered with a small smile, but somehow he still wasn't convinced.

And the woman must have felt his tenseness, because she reached out and gave an encouraging squeeze to his forearm.

Which did _very_ little to relax him.

"Everything worked out, didn't it? We got ourselves a bunch of bandits, and now hopefully Artemis will be able to learn the location of the main camp," she reassured him, oblivious to his reaction. "Besides, I wasn't worried at all. You were right there having my back, so how could I be?"

If Rizolvir's brain hadn't suffered a major shut down at her words, he would have seen her face blushing quite endearingly behind her bangs. But alas, his attention was routed somewhere else.

It was the wrong reaction for her to have.

Furthermore, it was a stupid reaction. If anything, the fact that he was hiding in the cart behind her should have worried her, not eased her mind about the events.

A Matron's security was much too important to be confided to a male. Only the best females should be fit for the task; and even then, a Matron shouldn't trust her bodyguards. It was too tempting to change the power structure with a well placed duty dereliction…

Scratch that. It wasn't a matter of trusting her security retail.

A drow didn't trust and wasn't trusted, period.

So why did he feel… elated? Why did he suddenly believe that trust was the greatest thing to have been bestowed upon him?

More scary yet: now that he was on topic, and when it came down to it, why did he trust her? And how hadn't he realized it sooner?

Surely there was an answer. And surely he would be able to think straight long enough to find it, if she just let go of his arm.

Only that he didn't want her to let go. It had been a long time since he had been on the receiving end of her easy-going, touchy-feely personality, and though it still seemed inappropriate and wrong, it felt right on so many levels that he wanted it to last just a bit longer.

He would have stayed lost in the middle of those confusing emotions for an unknown period of time if some external force hadn't come to the rescue.

_Aw. So very sweet. Should I look away now?_

… Of course, the external force would come in the form of Enserric's obnoxiousness.

Rizolvir snapped out of his self-induced shock and blinked, only to find that he was staring intently into two half-hidden, ordinary looking brown eyes.

To him they weren't ordinary, though. They were the first pair of female eyes he had the privilege of looking into – even if he himself still didn't know how he had earned such rights.

So he kept staring in mild amazement while a small part of his recovering mind wondered at Enserric's sudden appearance.

_Why would I have wanted to show up sooner, pal? The petty thieves' fight was boring, and besides it's obvious you didn't need my help, _the sword chuckled._ This, on the other hand, is quality entertainment… and if I'm not around you're going to do it all wrong. _

"_Go back to sleep," _Rizolvir ordered, only paying half a mind to it. He was busy scrutinizing Yria's eyes.

There was something there that he couldn't quite understand, but he felt that if he observed just for a moment longer then he would catch it…

Yria chuckled nervously and lowered her eyes. She was suddenly quite uncomfortable, and there was an urge to just _do_ something coming out of nowhere.

So she looked up again with a wide smile and did it.

"There's hay in your hair," she said, reaching up to get the golden straws out of his head.

Yria almost cursed at the stupid trap she had fallen into.

And it had been of her own making, to make things worse.

Because though she had expected to put some distance between them and get _that_ weird feeling out of her system, her impulsive actions had only served to bring her _closer _to him.

It was the first time she touched a drow's hair, and it was so silky that she found herself not really wanting to pull away.

Or it might have been because of the soft puffs of breath suddenly falling on the inside of her wrist.

Or the way her fingers accidentally grazed over the pointy end of an ear – it was such an amazing shape, so different from her own, that she wanted to outline it again in an almost compulsive way.

She didn't know. Point of the matter was that she didn't really want to take her hand back, and that she was starting to freak out about it, because she wasn't supposed to _care_ about all that stuff.

Enserric sighed.

_Now is the perfect moment for you to kiss her, you know, _it said in a bored tone from its corner in the back of Rizolvir's mind.

"_I… cannot do such a thing," _for once, there was no commanding bite to the drow's inner voice and the sentient sword reveled on it.

Who would have wondered that its master could be so _lost_.

_But you do want her to kiss you, admit it_, Enserric said smugly, making the most of Rizolvir's lowered defenses.

_"..."_

"Oh my! Would you look at this?" Sneeze.

Yria jolted in embarrassment as if burned by one of her infamous fireballs, and Rizolvir blinked madly away whatever moment had just occurred.

Luckily for them both though, Jarlaxle wasn't pointing at them. The drow rogue was smiling widely and waving a heavily decorated short sword and a handful of other trinkets that apparently had been pillaged from the leading bandit's person.

"I think we did it this time, my dearest companions!" the extravagant mercenary said.

Somewhere behind Rizolvir, there was a deep and long-suffering sigh.

"Leave it to Jarlaxle to turn community service into 'Way to Profit no. 7'," Entreri's voice said dryly as he hauled an ashen-looking wizard to his feet and then towards the rest of the group.


	6. Assessing the turnovers

A/N: _I'm terribly sorry about the delay in updating! I was caught up in a hellish two-exams-a-day week in University. I'm giving you a long, weird chapter as apology, though. Please, read and give me your opinion on it!_

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**Assessing the turnover****s**

Mando swallowed thickly. His eyes went quickly from the man, to the woman, to the two dark elves and back again without finding any kind of assurance in either one's face.

The wizard could see the proverbial flashing of his life before his very eyes.

It didn't seem that long ago that he and Rick were leading a proficient band of bandits with lucrative exploits all around Greenest. But then, somehow, the town had gotten access to first class mercenaries: a single skirmish was all it took for Mando's group to be wiped out.

A poorly chosen target, and the work and training of a lifetime became meaningless.

Not only that: the man had been sure, completely certain, that he was going to be killed. And though he couldn't know, countless people had indeed received the same look as he from Artemis Entreri as farewell gift.

This knowledge had only made it worse when he woke up from his own stunning spell to the very angry eyes of an assassin intent on finding answers, because the soaring surge of hope – the hope that, if he collaborated, he would make it – had been so deep that now he was left sinking in the deepest pits of despair.

He had done his very best – he had told the mercenary group everything they could want to know: where their base was, how many people they should find there, how many small patrols the band was made of, who their true leader was…

There was _nothing_ else Mando could think of to divulge, and still the scary man was pressing his sharp dagger to his neck.

"I don't remember saying that I'd spare you if you spoke up," the man said, a clearly amused and dark smirk ghosting over his thin lips.

The blade pierced his skin, and the wizard yelped.

"Wa –wait!" Mando croaked through the lump fear placed in his throat. "Are you not going to turn me in to the authorities?"

It was a sad state of affairs that the authorities and the gallows were an improvement to his current predicament.

A black eyebrow went up.

"You must have mistaken me for someone who believes in the authorities," Artemis said. "I'm not going to haul your sorry behind all the way to the city just for the so-called town justice's sake."

Mando was so surprised for the answer that he almost forgot to be terrified at the implications – which boded incredibly not-well for him.

Luckily, one of the dark elves, the one whose huge purple hat had led him to believe in the presence of a summoned monster a few moments before, decided to intervene before panic settled in.

"Now, now, Artemis don't be so rash! And it is so very impolite to just throw your goodly-justice rants on anyone who passes by, too! Besides, I'm sure our friends disagree with you, right?" he said, turning to the other pair.

"I see no point whatsoever in lowering ourselves to deliver this _Iblith_ to the town's administrative system. I am sure they shall find their heads to be proof enough of our accomplishment in the mission they tasked us with," said the second dark elf, a fellow wearing a light leather armor decorated with all kinds of spidery motives.

Mando saw the drow throw a hateful look his way and exchange a nod with the assassin holding him steady, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down with the sudden effort of swallowing.

Jarlaxle flinched. He should have known better than to expect something different of his own people, though. After all, there _was_ a reason most races thought them to be cruel, vindictive bastards. And if he wasn't mistaken – which he hardly ever was – there was a genuine amount of personal reasons beyond the general _Iblith_ slashing comment made by Rizolvir, which made it even more difficult to wrest some mercy out of the spellsword.

Mando really _shouldn't_ have attempted to stun Yria, the rogue thought.

Speaking of which.

"Yria? What do you think?" he asked.

Yria was human, young, and female. Under normal circumstances, this combination would make for an individual very reluctant to inflict unnecessary pains on others.

"Well," she said while worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "I'm not sure…"

"Of course," the rogue said, relieved. "You can see the advantages of taking this man alive to Greenest so that they can evaluate the provided information by themselves!"

"What?" the petite sorceress asked, confused. "No, I meant that I don't know whether we should press the advantage and attack now or not. We should, but it's going to be really uncomfortable because I forgot to bring along a change of clothes. And how are those bandits going to take me seriously with a dress on? And such a boring one, too!"

"No matter what you wear," Artemis said then, "you're still an eyesore."

Mando could feel the temperature rising a few degrees all around him as the purple-hated drow jumped out of his skin.

"A sight for sore eyes!" Jarlaxle covered desperately before the insult computed and before random fireballs started to fly loose. "He means to say that no matter what, your beauty is always a sight for sore eyes! It's just that he's so unused to finding attractive women such as yourself that he's not all that familiar with the adequate wording when the situation calls for it!"

Unfortunately, his timely intervention computed with a extremely sensitive Rizolvir, who was not keen on others trying to escalate positions over him in his mental 'House' structure.

"Ser dosst phish sol tarthe xor usstan orn plynn ol doeb," he said, resorting to his native tongue for reasons beyond cursing for the first time since he met Yria.

"Hey," the petite sorceress said with a smile, turning all her attention away from her farmer dress and onto the spellsword, "that's the first time I ever heard you speaking drow! It sounds great… I thought it'd be more phonetically similar to Elven, but it actually has nothing to do with it!"

Rizolvir flinched almost imperceptibly at the unknowingly delivered insult – the way he looked at it, _obviously_ Drow had nothing to do with Fairy – but accepted it without complaint, his cold eyes still fixed on Jarlaxle.

The rogue chuckled nervously and crossed his arms in a non-threatening gesture, and Artemis had to smirk at the sudden discomfort of the eternal meddler.

"Now, now, my friend, it is not nice to speak a tongue one of us doesn't understand…" Jarlaxle said, trying to turn the tables on the other elf by making him uncomfortable with his choice of language.

Though the Calishite might have been a bit rusted in his use of Drow, it was a language he had come to master during his long stay in Menzoberranzan, and he could completely understand why Rizolvir was using it.

From what he had observed, the warrior mage was painstakingly passive when around the sorceress, and it wouldn't do for that carefully crafted image to say certain things aloud.

'_Keep that garnet eye of yours away or I'll pluck it out'_ probably counted among the things that Rizolvir didn't want his little friend to hear.

He silently cheered for the white-haired drow: no one had ever threatened Jarlaxle so openly and lived to tell the tale, and the image was both refreshing and amusing.

Still, he could only enjoy of a few moments to appreciate his companion's bantering.

Twisting the jeweled dagger so that it bit into flesh, he cast a somber look to the wizard who was stupid enough to attempt escaping from right under his nose.

"You didn't think for a moment that it would work, right," he asked in a deadpan tone.

Mando squealed and started to sweat anew.

Though now the answer was obvious and he almost felt ashamed of his behavior, yes, he had thought that he could get away.

The group was lost in banter and arguing against each other, for Cyric's sake… it should have been easy to wiggle his way out!

"Why, mister wizard, thanks for bringing us back on track!" Jarlaxle piped up, with a mock bow to the scared bandit. "Now, let's get going. We will take you with us, and you'll prove your further utility so that we all can see a reason not to kill you on the spot! Is that okay with you?"

Mando stared at the jovial garnet eye in horrified silence, and since he couldn't find his voice it was the assassin who spoke next.

"Back to Greenest, then?" he said, slightly piqued that Jarlaxle was once again enforcing his personal decisions on the group.

However, the rogue's smile widened to insane proportions.

"Why, no! We're going to raid the bandit's main camp, and we will enjoy our very own personal tour guide too!"

o O o

Jarlaxle smiled apologetically at Mando when he finished tying the knots that would hold the wizard immobile against a tree, though it was obvious that the drow was not overly sorry about it.

Then, he sat back on his heels and waited patiently, tapping his chin in a thoughtful manner.

The bandit wizard swallowed and did his best to look non-threatening – not that he had to put much effort into it anyway, and the dark elf had to smile. The poor man must have assumed that he was wondering about what to do with him while they conducted their assault, but in truth this issue was furthest of all from Jarlaxle's mind.

The wizard had already gone from 'enemy' to 'asset' in the rogue's books, and so he was unworthy of further consideration, unless it was to devise a way to put him to good use.

No, what Jarlaxle was wondering about was whether he should take the chance to prod Yria about her relationship with Eldath or not. After all, it was rare for them to have alone time and this seemed to be the perfect chance: Artemis was circling the camp to one side, sliding silently from shadow to shadow, and Rizolvir was shrouded in an invisibility spell and heading the other way.

The girl, however, was just a few paces away from him, crouching under the bushes and studying intently the clearing where the bandits had built their headquarters.

If the group had been expecting deep cave complexes filled with traps, they were sorely disappointed: there was just a bout of clean grass and a small sized cabin standing in the middle, with all the people milling around it.

It was surely the best way to avoid being noticed, to keep their infrastructures low, but Yria was wondering whether she would have been able to endure it. After all, what was the point of gold if you had to sleep in a saturated common room crammed with twenty other smelly people?

What did you want to dedicate your life to pillage for, if at the end of the day you couldn't just go to an inn to get a decent dinner and a hot bath? Not understandable.

With a sigh, she turned her attention back to Jarlaxle and shrugged questioningly, meaning 'when are we supposed to attack?'.

The drow thought about it and decided that Artemis was bound to be in place – or close enough to it anyway – so he motioned with his hands. He hoped the vague gesture would be translated into 'when you're ready'.

Apparently, though, there were some misunderstandings along the way because the message Yria got was 'by all means, go ahead'.

Taking careful aiming, the petite sorceress gathered arcane energy around her person and then shot it forwards in the form of an apple-seized white-hot fireball.

The spell flew straight to the center of the clearing, leaving a smoking tale behind, and went up in a flaring inferno when it hit its target:

The bandit's common bonfire.

The two masses of flames collided none too softly, and the fires erupted in sparks and flying ash in a semi sphere at least ten feet tall. Small incendiary bodies detached themselves from the main explosion, and they ricocheted and gyrated in every direction, burning bright and roaring high.

"Aw, pretty…" Jarlaxle said, shading his sensitive eyes and stopping a moment to enjoy the fireworks.

Amazingly enough, when the commotion dwindled, it was revealed that most bandits had survived the assault unscathed.

Jarlaxle wasn't surprised, though. He knew that the first volley was never meant to kill the enemy, so he snapped his wrist and balanced the first dagger to be sent into the improvised battlefield.

Before stepping forth, he did pause one moment to pat his recently acquired wizard's head, giving him a goofy look – a silent, creepy reminder not to try to do anything stupid, like breaking free –; and then he set his dagger loose to fell the first running bandit.

The fireball might not have killed many people, but it had made a hell of a starting show.

And when chaos ruled supreme, there was no way a drow could lose, Jarlaxle thought with a wide grin as he slithered out of the shadows and into the campsite, raining daggers right and left.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the fire, one Artemis Entreri was pulled out of his meticulous counting of enemies by a rather loud and flashy explosion.

The Calishite felt the urge to roll his eyes when he saw the way panic seized the gathered bandits, and wondered how the people of Greenest had thought this group to be powerful and organized.

In his trained eyes, they were anything but; and Entreri knew a thing or two about organized crime. The amateurs in front of him wouldn't have lasted a month in his homeland – no matter that some of them had been in the business for almost as long as he himself: they were reacting as surprised individuals desperate to survive, and that would be their downfall.

The assassin stepped forth and parried the wild slash of a bandit with his jeweled dagger, creating an opening with the barest flick of his wrist and slipping Charon's Claw through even before the astonished man could react.

Disgusting. The band was deserving of nothing but his contempt as he started to work his blades against the many men and women who ran in circles trying to find a suitable defending position.

To Entreri, all those running fools were already dead in spite of their efforts: to survive, you never let someone surprise you, and you always had a contingency plan in case you were attacked.

In the bandits' defense it must be said that it took them barely an instant to actually regain their bearings and start pulling themselves together for the fight: they managed to do it as soon as their leaders stepped out of the single cabin.

They rushed forth, wearing dark armor and dark hoods and with sparkling weapons drawn in their hands, and upon their sight, the bandits tried to regroup and to put up a battle that would drive the invaders, whoever they were, out of their rightfully claimed land.

Threats were screamed, orders were barked, and four men charged Artemis Entreri – the one assailant they could actually see, for Jarlaxle was still leisurely throwing daggers hidden in the canopy surrounding the clearing.

Whether the assassin could have dispatched them all at once or not remains to be seen, though, because at that moment all four bandits were swallowed up by a bout of darkness.

There were distinct stumbling and shoving sounds, loud curses, and eventually gasping.

Then, the black cloud was dispersed with a thought of its caster and four very dead bodies were left for all to see – along with a smug dark elf wielding twin wicked longswords.

Rizolvir exchanged a nod with Entreri and then went about his own business, his nimble feet dancing him out of harm's way while he cleaved and chopped the slow humans who dared to face him.

It wasn't such a challenging task.

Their numbers were great, true, but their skills were simply not measurable when compared to his own: not matter how good they had gotten with their blades, he had the battle experience of over two centuries against theirs; no matter how quickly they wove their weapons, his elven limbs were faster; no matter how proficiently they could handle a secondary weapon, he wielded two primary ones.

No matter how often the bandits had fought or killed before, he had done worse and it was this simple fact that made him untouchable to their attacks.

As Rizolvir fought his allotted foes, he was actively seeking the leaders, though.

When the chaos had unleashed and the three figures had made their entrance, Enserric had shouted a warning in a corner of his mind, informing him that it would love to have Elven blood as dessert, and so the spellsword kept his eyes wide open, hoping for a chance to cross blades with the Fairy leading the bandits. If anyone in the accursed camp could come even close to him, it was the other elf – the only other being able to compete with his experience.

A fire ray lashed and trashed across the battlefield, stringing three combatants on its wake and coming close enough to Rizolvir to almost singe his skin, and following the path of destruction ruby eyes met green.

The sun elf's almond-shaped eyes widened ever so slightly at the sight of his dark skinned cousin, and the amount of hate shining in their emerald depths was unrivalled.

Because Jel'al might have turned away from the haughty ways of elves, and he might live among humans, and bandits at that, but still he carried all of the inherited feelings towards drow of any other surface elf.

And the animosity was only fueled with the legend that only the best swordmasters could stand up to the twin swords of a drow and live to tell the tale, because Jel'al fancied himself a great swordmaster.

Twirling his rapier and gauche and leaving his men to keep their organized defense by themselves, he started to navigate his way towards his ancestral enemy.

o O o

Kimmuriel tucked the slim volume back inside his robes, and suppressed a gesture of resignation.

As Jarlaxle had anticipated, the book wasn't Netherese and it had been interesting for him to investigate it, but still the psion would rather not have gotten involved.

Because with what he had found out, he was pretty sure that the former mercenary leader was going to go and get into trouble – and of course, he wouldn't go in alone.

He'd drag Bregan D'aerthe in with him, and that was what Kimmuriel wanted to avoid at all costs, though it seemed to be becoming more and more difficult a task.

Besides, if he had to be totally honest – which he wasn't often – he had to admit that perhaps there might be something to actually pursuing the lead laid by the book. It could certainly give the organization an edge if the Shadovar succeeded, and if there were opportune leaks of information, they could get a juicy contract to take action anyway.

So perhaps, just perhaps, the son of Oblodra would allow Jarlaxle to talk him into his new venture this time, as long as he could be assured of the band's integrity in the process.

Yes, that plan sounded about right.

Kimmuriel cast his mind to the latest known whereabouts of Jarlaxle, spread wide to seek for the signature of the troublesome rogue, and opened a shimmering blue dimensional door that would take him once again to the accursed surface, in order to deliver the most urgent report he had been tasked with.

The faint light that came out the portal told the psion that, woe of woes, he was going to make his appearance under the declining sun of the evening.

Gritting his teeth against the incoming onslaught of brightness, Kimmuriel stepped forth hoping against all hope that Jarlaxle would recognize and appreciate the lengths to which he went to comply with all the absurd demands of the forgotten Baenre.

The least Jarlaxle could do is give the new Bregan D'aerthe leader a large share of whatever benefit he found in his surface ventures, really.

Kimmuriel crossed the portal and closed it with a thought, casting his gaze around to locate and address Jarlaxle…

… And he was promptly toppled over by a frenzied human.

The forever composed drow had to tumble ungracefully to the side to avoid going down, and his eyes locked onto the filthy hands of the man who had dared to bulldoze him so. The _Iblith_ was daring to _grasp_ onto his clothes for support!

His new tunic was going to have to be incinerated for hygienic reasons, he thought with disgust.

As punishment, he focused his considerable mental prowess and excited the particles that made up the man himself, fully intent on burning him from the inside out.

But it proved to be an exercise in futility, because he was barely getting started when a flying dagger did the job for him.

He turned his head, following the projectile's course to find Jarlaxle.

There he was, huge purple hat bouncing merrily and multicolored cloak billowing while the dark elf brawled along.

Kimmuriel started to move towards his superior, but the befuddled psion was waylaid first by an elbow to the ribs, then by a stomping on his foot, and finally by a barrage of raw magic darts raining all around him and making his hair stand on end.

When not a second later one of those missiles sizzled close enough to him that he almost smelt his own burned eyebrow, he decided that enough was enough.

"JARLAXLE!"

Said elf startled and looked to the irate source of the call, and immediately an impish grin parted his ebony features.

"Why, Kimmuriel!" he said jovially, waving his hand in typical surfacer-like greeting. "It's so nice to see you joined us!"

The humans who had been trashing the powerful psion about suddenly seemed to catch on to the apparition of a newcomer in their mist, and when they realized that yes, he had black skin and white hair and pointy ears, all Pandemonium broke loose.

It was the best part of an hour until some semblance of calm returned to the clearing, where a most interesting group met together after a healthy looting session under a tree, which was attached to a badly looking and shaken wizard.

Kimmuriel did his best to ignore the deadly glares sent his way by an angrier than usual Entreri, and to hide his curiosity at the presence of another drow in Jarlaxle's little rag-tag group, and he simply offered the tattered leather book back to the rogue.

"You could have run into that book earlier," he commented, making sure to look as dignified and detached as possible. "It'd have been useful to deal with the wretched golem you dumped on me."

"Really?" Jarlaxle said, caressing the thin volume and turning it over and over with curiosity. "I take it you've already unveiled its secrets, then?"

"Of course," the psion snorted, offended by the mere idea of failure.

"Then tell us whatever we need to know and be on your way," Entreri spoke up, not thrilled with having Kimmuriel on sight.

"Artemis, manners…" and funnily enough, the psion noted, it was the small sorceress Jarlaxle had told him about the one pacifying the sour assassin.

He spared the human a look and, utterly unimpressed by what he saw, he turned again to discuss business with the only person he deemed worthy of his attention.

"As you had anticipated, the artifact is not of Netherese origin," he started to explain, willing to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible. "However, my research shows that it doesn't fall too far from that human people: it is Illefari."

Rizolvir halted his constant survey of their surroundings long enough to curse under his breath at that. Personally, he was quite fed up with Illefarn Empire… and Entreri's tired sigh by his side suggested as much.

"I see," mumbled Jarlaxle, thoroughly intrigued. "Why would it have been useful in dealing with my… ehrm, your golem?"

"Because it explains in a quite detailed way how to assemble and craft the famous Illefari golems, which is what you foolishly set loose in our headquarters."

"But," the young woman, Yria, interrupted, "that wasn't a normal golem, right? Golems are sometimes immune to magic, but they don't _feed_ on it!"

"Natural golems are not that quick," Entreri commented in a dry tone, remembering not too kindly the battle against the invincible construct.

"Unless this abilities are the reason behind the success of the Illefari trading operations where golems are concerned," Rizolvir added absently, his attention still on the area and its possible dangers.

"If you all shut up, I will _gladly_ enlighten you. After all, it was _me_ who studied the tome."

"Of course, of course, do go on Kimmuriel…" Jarlaxle said, always the peacemaker.

"The book also details what could happen if magic disappeared while the golems are being operated, and gives a series of instructions to prevent it. I would assume the specimen that now is in Bregan D'aerthe's possession is older than this directive, because it was the result of those side effects."

"Of magic disappearing? As it happened when Netheril went down?"

"Exactly," Kimmuriel nodded his head to the human sorceress, too gone into his explanation to realize that he was addressing _Iblith_. "The golems then would switch to an 'alternate' source of power. My investigations point to an underlying structure that might be described as the polar opposite of the Weave."

"And thus, all Weave manipulations would either be ignored or produce an opposing effect in a modified golem," Rizolvir reasoned, his eyes for the first time leaving the treeline and fixing upon Kimmuriel.

"Exactly."

"Where do the Shadovar fit?" asked Jarlaxle after a moment's silence.

"It is an hypothesis, but if we remember their past, their Empire was annihilated by a magic-based race – and there is a good chance that this same race is what keeps them away from the Prime now," the psion ventured darkly.

"They want revenge," Artemis realized. "They want to use this adulterated golems against whoever sent them to the Shadows in the first place."

Kimmuriel just nodded.

"That is my educated guess, yes."

"Can they actually pull it?" Yria's voice was barely audible.

"There are historical records of Netheril stopping the flow of the Weave before, so it is well within the realms of possibility, even though I cannot fathom how they would do such a thing," Kimmuriel reported. "If they manage it, the golem army that would be created could be a challenge to any established civilization. Not to mention that we know nothing of how the Weave would return afterwards, if at all."

"So you're saying that those Shady folks might be trying to rule the world and eliminate magic as we know it in the process?" Yria asked, an eyebrow arched as she visibly tried to come to terms with the overwhelming information.

"Basically, yes."

"Screw World Domination!" Jarlaxle said suddenly, his face more serious than Kimmuriel ever remembered seeing it. "They dare to mess with the way **_my_ **trinkets work?"


	7. Unfair dismissal

A/N: _Next chapter's up – we're starting a new story arc, yay! Please, read and review: this installment is important and there's some stuff to comment on, I believe! Thanks, and now I'll let you with what you really want to see instead of awfully long author notes…_

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**Unfair dismissal**

They neared Greenest when the sun had already sunk way below the horizon and it was just the four of them – plus their captive wizard, of course. The way back into town had been tense, because they were worried over several issues and the fact that it was Kimmuriel the one looking into them did little to appease their nerves: Yria because she didn't know anything about the psion beyond Jarlaxle's succinct 'this is my associate, Kimmuriel'; Entreri for reasons opposite to hers; Rizolvir because the Oblodra was a drow and Jarlaxle because he felt that perhaps he was calling upon Bregan D'aerthe one time too many.

This was a new thought for the mercenary leader: Bregan D'aerthe was _his_ tool, and so he could summon it as often as he deemed fit – that was the thinking behind his actions, up until that new feeling sneaked up on him right after dismissing Kimmuriel back to Menzoberranzan. Even as the psion was almost shoved back through his dimensional door, armed with the book and with instructions to investigate whether their hunch about the Shadovar intentions was correct or not, Jarlaxle had wondered if he was really putting too much stock on the belief 'if something goes wrong, I'll have Kimmuriel fix it'.

He was well known for his ability to always have a backup plan, and in this case, if Bregan D'aerthe could not find out how the Weave could be disrupted, or what could be done in order to prevent the Netherese plans from coming to fruition, then he didn't have another course of action planned.

It made the rogue wonder: if all his ventures depended in some way or another on the drow mercenary band, then shouldn't he be staying with his band? Furthermore, why was he thinking about stopping the Shades?

Yes, of course, it was because he wanted to save his trinkets, but shouldn't he be better served if he found a contract or something that would pay him for doing precisely that anyway?

Because as it had been made clear by Jarlaxle's own comment, they were certainly _not_ a group of heroes wanting to prevent the Phaerimm genocide or to protect the free peoples of the surface from the evil Shadovar rule. That much was painfully obvious.

But if they had to step in to prevent magic from being banished, to ensure proper artifact functioning, and to learn a thing or two about the dark forces behind the Weave, then they would do it. Complaining and grumbling and without putting too much effort into it, but they would certainly do it.

It had nothing to do with being good, it was all about their different lifestyles. That was the reason he had stepped away from Bregan D'aerthe and on towards creating a niche for himself on the surface: it was because he wanted to experience the possibilities offered by a new life, and he suspected his companions to have similar reasons of their own.

Did this turn them into heroes, Jarlaxle wondered. Ah, it was a tricky question. If asked to someone who 'knew' them, say Do'Urden or Cadderly for instance, the answer would be a loud, rotund 'no'. But probably, if you asked the people of Beregost or of Greenest (minus the innkeeper, that is), they would say yes.

So where did the difference between hero and villain lay? The drow cast a quick glance to his human companion. Would Artemis Entreri ever be considered one of the former?

… Hardly.

But Jarlaxle had to admit that the assassin's views on the outside world were starting to rub off on him if he was considering such philosophical questions.

To the dark elf, there were no such masks of good and evil: there was just opportunity and benefit.

Was there?

The rogue's mind thought back to a night on the road; to the night when they had been attacked for the first time. He had been talking to Rizolvir, and the other drow had asked him, 'where does profit lay, Jarlaxle?'. Though at that moment Jarlaxle had been quite sure that he knew the answer, he was beginning to understand where the other male was coming from: didn't profit and benefit lay in Bregan D'aerthe and in Menzoberranzan? Wasn't he getting into gambits where he stood to lose more than he could gain?

No. It couldn't be, because he was not frustrated at his ventures – and he was prone to get frustrated when something didn't turn out to be as useful as it was expected.

So? Was the sating of his curiosity so important to him that (gasp!) it counted as profit?

Why was he wondering about that kind of stuff anyway?

It was _so_ not his style!

"Hey."

Poke to the shoulder.

Jarlaxle was pulled out of his thoughts by Yria, who smiled softly at him.

"You're looking terribly downcast," she said. "Are you bothered by the appearance of your 'associate'?"

"Ah, Kimmuriel?" the rogue chuckled. He hadn't been planning on introducing the psion to the party anytime soon, but the dramatic entrance his former lieutenant had pulled made up for the busting of his secret. "No, it's not that. He's actually quite the trustworthy fellow, if you'd believe me."

"Yeah, I know."

"You do?"

Jarlaxle blinked in surprise. If she could actually trust Kimmuriel on his word alone, she was far more accepting than he thought.

"Sure," she said with an easy shrug. "You'd not allow him to scry and locate you just like that if he wasn't."

The drow nodded appreciatively. She was right, of course, and he was glad to learn that she wasn't the airhead she seemed to be at times.

She must have caught on to his thoughts, because she suddenly stuck his tongue out at him.

"Hey, I'm not _really_ stupid."

"Good to know it. Stupid people make for reckless battle allies and useless companions."

"And boring friends," she added, and Jarlaxle would have sworn she was giving him a sly look if he had believed her capable of such a thing.

The rogue plastered a grin on his face and tipped his great hat. He really didn't want to argue on the nuances between 'boring friends' and 'useless companions', though he knew that _in theory _there was some difference there – at least in surface mind-frames.

"Indeed," he said, hoping to move on to another topic.

Yria just covered a huge yawn the best she could, and rubbed her sleepy eyes in a clear attempt to stay awake long enough to reach the inn.

"… So, why did you hide it?" she asked between one thing and the other.

Jarlaxle almost startled at that question. Why had he hid it? Well, why wouldn't he?

But he knew that it was not the best answer: Yria wasn't anything like Entreri in that respect – she believed in communication something awful. She talked, and talked, and made her opinion clear and loud.

Oh, she could scheme and she was a great liar, of course, but not to _them_. Jarlaxle had noted that the small sorceress drew a very clear, very definite line between her companions and the others, and that while she didn't have many qualms about making profit out of the others, she was honest and outspoken when it came to dealing with her chosen group.

The drow mercenary couldn't very well understand her need to blurt out any and all information she possessed, but he made an effort to actually think and answer her question anyway.

"Because you didn't ask?" he said, hopefully.

Yria just giggled and shook her head.

"You know, I like to say that I'm a resourceful woman too. Things would be too plain boring otherwise… But there's always a time when you've to tell the difference between being useful and being flashy."

Jarlaxle stared at the girl out the corner of his eye. He knew she was not saying that he was not useful… she was merely implying that sometimes withholding information could be an impediment, and that at those times one had to give up one's secrets for the greater good.

And that line gave way to more questions than Jarlaxle cared to answer, though he figured that in some deep level he understood what she meant.

Basically, she was trying to convince him that he didn't need his safety plans where the group was concerned: that he could get his guard down and share his vast knowledge with them for free and without worrying. The rogue had enough accumulated lore of a wide range of cultures to know that she was getting to the concept of friendship.

Unfortunately, it was not a concept he was too comfortable with – drow had a history of backstabbing when it came down to friendship, and to be honest he hadn't managed to get a clear, simple definition of the meaning of the word in all the time he had dealt with the 'goodly' races, so, to him, being 'friends' didn't mean lowering one's guard.

It simply meant that there was no need to kill each other without a reasonable profit involved.

All this metaphysical thinking about being good and about friends was starting to make his head spin.

Jarlaxle threw a desperate look over the sorceress to Artemis Entreri, who was walking with his customary scowl in place while herding their captive along, and tried to catch his attention.

Even the antisocial assassin was better company than the inquisitive woman. Artemis usually threatened him, and hardly ever paid attention to what he said, but at the very least he didn't ask weird questions and didn't try to make him think about ever weirder issues. The Calishite would never ask why he hadn't brought the topic of Kimmuriel up, because he _understood_.

…

Waitaminute.

Jarlaxle blinked and turned a suddenly suspicious look back onto Yria, only to catch a roguish wink and a mischievous smile before she bounced away as suddenly as she had interrupted his musings earlier on.

Lagging a few paces behind, Rizolvir felt the mental equivalent to a kick to his shin.

_Stop straining already! I've already told you that eavesdropping is not a nice habit, right?_

"_Oh, so you deem it fit to show up now?" _Rizolvir snorted_. "I might have had some use for you when I was trying to locate that Fairy in the clearing; now, your comments are useless and unwelcome." _

_Someone's sore because he didn't get to kick elven ass? Hey pal, I'm even more annoyed: I really wanted a taste_!

Rizolvir dropped his eyes from Jarlaxle's exposed back and glared at the plain iron guard of a sheathed Enserric.

"_Then you should have done something about it, I would say."_

_I tried, you know. But there were too many souls running amok, and the dimensional door of your elven friend getting in the middle of things didn't make it any easier. _

The spellsword kept his glare steady, but he guessed that the sword was right. There had been quite a ruckus, after all.

_Aha! So you admit to being wrong! … Now you could apologize, you know. _

The drow arched a delicate eyebrow and almost sneered at his blade – though he was able to reduce it to a very sore look and a mental shove in the last moment.

"_Hardly."_

Enserric stared morosely at his master from its corner within the dark elf's mind, but then the sentient sword perked up. If Rizolvir was not going to apologize, then he was going to be mercilessly teased.

_Suit yourself,_ the sword sniggered. _Anyway, I've been taking a look at your thoughts and really, I can't understand why you agreed to Entreri being Yria's husband, pal. I mean, that would completely defeat the purpose of your coming to the surface and all! _

Rizolvir frowned, but refrained from any biting comment. He _was_ a bit sore about that one, after all.

"_It was necessary to ensure her security."_

_Tsk. He could have played as her father or her brother, but come on, her _husband_? You are losing your touch if didn't see the danger in there._

"_I understand that the role would be equivalent to that of a Patron,"_ Rizolvir wondered, slightly confused. _"There was no danger: he posed as such, and then he is discarded and proceeds to his rightful place within the House."_

_Discarded? Hah! It is husband, pal, not Patron. When you're married, you agree to spend the rest of your life loving your partner faithfully. There is no going back other than death! _

"_Pardon?"_

_Cultural differences, my friend, cultural differences. _

Rizolvir's mind went reeling, and Enserric sat back in satisfied silence to admire his handiwork.

Lifelong companions? It was true that a human's lifespan was ridiculously short, so it was only logical that they would come up with such strange ideas, but still, how could it be? Surely a female was bound to grow bored of her partner sometime?

Even if they didn't, better breeding partners could come up at any given time. There could always be a drow stronger, smarter, younger than oneself, and why would a Matron keep a male who had become essentially worthless?

Or worse: taking into account the usual practices, any male used continuously was bound to eventually fail in pleasing his mistress – was that the parting death Enserric was referring to?

And then there was that other concept, love.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to find an equivalent word to express that idea in his native tongue. Furthermore, he wasn't even sure he knew what he was trying to translate. It seemed to be a fleeting thing, some kind of emotion the nature of which was mostly unknown, even to those who used the word all the time.

Perhaps this 'loving' was the reason behind the husband figure. An alien concept to explain an alien role away.

And Perhaps… perhaps it wasn't such an awful idea. Ridiculous, yes, but Rizolvir found that he wasn't appalled by the possibility of a lifetime bond with a certain sorceress.

In some deep level that his reason refused to reach, he knew that the petite woman would never hurt or punish him. The mere fact that she allowed him to look her in the eye and that she seemed to value his thoughts on any given matter already made him dizzy, and it assured him strangely in her presence: if he presented her his naked chest, she would not plunge a knife in.

Nor a fireball, for that matter.

The spellsword's eyes flickered over to Yria, and watched as she bounced away from Jarlaxle, skipped along for a while, and then gravitated towards Entreri.

Cocking his head to the side, the drow wondered suddenly if this 'marriage' thing was not something surfacers coveted, just as it happened to him with the Patron position.

Was the assassin trying to step over him?

Any passerby could have told him that it was not the case, but then again the eyes can be blinded by the heart in ways that reason cannot but dream of, so he simply stared as the worrisome notion floated about in his head, completely oblivious to the amused chuckles of a certain Enserric.

Not many feet ahead, Artemis Entreri felt an intent gaze glued to his back, and made the mistake of looking up to see what was going on – he never had a chance to find out.

A pair of huge brown eyes hovering too close for comfort got in the way of his line of sight, and then mistook his widening own eyes as some kind of invitation for conversation.

Because truthfully, a distraction was very much needed at that point by Yria, even if it was in the form of one Calishite assassin.

She had been poking around and amusing herself by meddling into Jarlaxle's life – a sport few could boast of surviving – but then, when she had pulled away to let the drow rogue to reflect upon his new revelations, she had found herself in a completely new situation.

And it was not the exiting kind of new, either.

Yria Ingerd was surely the quintessential people's person. She could talk to a complete stranger, to her friends, to a possible companion and to a sworn enemy with equal ease, she always had a comeback in the ready and people just had a way of noticing her. But that was not the point.

The point was that, beyond any lucrative uses, this was something that she thoroughly enjoyed.

The sorceress had an unexplainable need for people to be about her, for contact with other intelligent beings. No one knows where this need came from, but it was clear that she'd be doomed if she ever attempted to pull off a hermit way of life. And so she had come across this unbefitting new feeling:

Social awkwardness.

Yria Ingerd, of all people, didn't know how to behave around others. Or, to be more specific, around a certain person.

A whole battle had gone by, they had acquired all kinds of money and possible merchandises, they had met a new mysterious individual, the had unveiled the secrets behind the Illefari book… and still she couldn't get the sight of ruby eyes _that_ close out of her mind. Which was driving her insane, of course – even without taking into account that she didn't know how to react to that warm look, there was the fact that she couldn't even start to recognize what said look was all about.

Hells, she couldn't even put her own reactions in a semblance of order!

She had been so very close to taking action that, for the first time in her rather short life, she was scared of interaction. No matter how often she told herself that it was stupid, the sorceress didn't feel one bit sure about the outcome if the scene were to be replayed – and this was bad, because acting on her desires would land her project of a profitable future in a very compromised position.

Oh, yes, she had figured out that what she had felt was some kind of desire. And she had a pretty good inkling of just what it was compelling her to do – even if the mere thought made her blush furiously –, she wasn't _completely_ naïve.

But she hadn't figured why she had those unsettling desires, or even a decent way to handle them since they seemed to be installed in her mind and body for the long haul: after all, she had never been forced to deal with them before, which was the whole problem.

She had used the desire of others for her own purposes once or twice though, and now, as she skipped along trying very determinedly _not_ to look back and _not_ to think about soft white strands of hair slipping between her fingertips, she began to understand the true extent of her 'evil' acts.

That's why when Entreri half turned her way and she saw a chance to keep her mind busy in other things, she jumped and grasped it with both hands – and the viciousness of a crag cat.

Poor Artemis didn't stand a chance, and who knows how it might have ended if they hadn't gotten within sight of their inn – and of the small committee waiting for them to return – at that precise moment.

The Calishite grabbed the collar of their captive wizard as he took two long strides to the forefront of the small group – he'd turn the man in himself if that kept him away from the sorceress and her really unsettling look.

However, even as he was thinking about the irony of the situation and pushing the one known as Mando to walk in front of him, he caught sight of the men waiting under the lamp light and noticed that something was not right.

Artemis frowned as his instincts registered the bleary eyes, the accentuated stress lines, the pale clammy skin, the swallowing, the drops of cold sweat going down the faces of the assembled group, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that disaster was about to strike, for he could tell what that look was all about.

He was staring Fear in the face.

And sure enough, the major crumbled down under his very eyes when he recognized the mercenaries – which earned him a sneer from Entreri: a leader should know better than to allow such weaknesses in public.

Still, the assassin waited and didn't complain while the commander of guard seemed to take charge of the situation… that is, right up until the moment the man spoke up through clenched teeth.

"Greenest is grateful for the efforts you've dedicated to its well-being," the man said in an icy tone, "but the circumstances have changed and the city must ask you to free your captive and to step back from this operation at once."


	8. Wrestling the job back

A/N: _Long chapter ahead! This is the end of the first secondary arc of the story… It's the first time I do something like this and I'd like to know if you guys have liked this little side trip with our friends! I wanted a chance to show character development, to observe the group 'from the outside', and to just have a bit of fun. (^^) Also, this chapter came out a bit weird – you'll see what I mean. The first part, mostly… after spending a long while tweaking it, I decided that I actually liked the original thing and kept it, though I still realize that it's kind of weird. Please, enjoy the chapter and let me know your opinion on it!_

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**Wrestling the job back**

"I must say, Artemis," Jarlaxle managed to squeeze out between ragged breaths, "that I wasn't expecting you to be so enthusiastic about this."

The assassin paused in his fluid movements a split second to glare at the dark elf.

"Are you complaining?"

"Why, not at all!" said elf smiled while trying to keep his attention on the task at hand. "I find this change of attitude to be most refreshing, as a matter of fact. It's just that it was a bit surprising to see such passionate side of yours!"

Jarlaxle waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Entreri snorted at his companion's antics. No matter the situation, Jarlaxle couldn't be serious for the life of him, it seemed, so he decided to reply in kind.

"No one fires Artemis Entreri," he said with what could only be described as a good-humored growl.

Only Jarlaxle's theatrical nature allowed the dark elf to keep surprise away from his features. Surely, that hadn't been a sample of Entreri humor – did such a thing even exist, to begin with?

Ah, perhaps he was not the only one being influenced by his current associates and companions…

"Of course not!" the drow said, smiling knowingly. He paused for breath, and added as an afterthought: "And Bandit Killing was proving to be such a profitable job, too! There was nothing we could do but wrestle it back."

Entreri's answer was reduced to a grunt due to physical exertion, and Jarlaxle wondered whether it had been an _agreeing_ grunt. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and waited expectantly for an elaboration on the Calishite's part.

The assassin took a deep breath after looking around to make sure that they were finally alone and decided to humor him.

"Don't go complaining around. The 'wrestling back' is turning out to be about as 'profitable' as the original job," he stated dryly while his hands sheathed his weapons mechanically.

"Obviously," Jarlaxle sniggered. "Why else would I be bothering with it? Unless you feel the gallantry of rescuing a fair maiden is already rewarding enough?" the drow teased his companion, who predictably rose to the bait.

"Want to join them that badly?" the assassin asked, motioning with his head to the dead bodies scattered all around him.

Jarlaxle merely shrunk his swords into their dagger form and laughed quire freely, making Artemis smile darkly in turn.

And Entreri was secretly glad to have successfully routed the conversation away from the job they had currently undertaken, because if he was being honest with himself he didn't really know why it had bothered him so to be told to back off.

The mystery was a good distraction from the dawning realization that Jarlaxle and he seemed to have developed a scary camaraderie based on routinely threatening and manipulating each other, and so he let his mind wander in that direction.

Really, it had almost been second nature when he had told Greenest finest that they would fix their problems – once again – but, when he thought about it carefully, he realized that what he had told Jarlaxle _was_ the truth.

He was the best assassin of Calimport, possibly the most infamous hit man in the Realms, and he'd be damned if he was kicked out of a job because of some third-rate bandit trick.

His pride had been seriously stung, easy as that. He didn't really care about the losing of benefits, though he had supported negotiations – hells, he had gone so far so as to actually _suggest_ them. Granted that he would never have managed squeeze the whole bounty as payment, but then that was the reason he kept Jarlaxle and Yria around. After all, the bland Mayor deserved to lose all that money if he was so weak so as to be willing to let the few remaining bandits to coerce him and get away with it, but definitely it was not the loss of prospective gold what made him step forth and take the mission into his own two hands.

And in spite of Jarlaxle's teasing, the Calishite simply didn't _do_ gallantry: he had a habit of doing whatever it took, and, really, the flamboyant drow was better suited for that department. No, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the fact that there was a hostage on the line hadn't affected him in the least, that he could care less about their safety.

Then again, he was willing to concern himself with the hostage's survival if this would keep his perfect track of faultless, accomplished jobs.

He turned to face Jarlaxle, one eyebrow arching questioningly.

"We should be done here. But, do you think it was a good idea to let Rizolvir do the actual rescuing?"

The drow winced visibly at the reminder.

"Well, we didn't know that he would end up in charge of the lovely Mialeena at the time."

Strictly speaking, that was the truth. They had locked Mando in prison and then they had set off in pursuit of the bandits without knowing much of the task ahead – which seemed to be becoming a bit of a routine for them – other than the spot where the exchange hostage-bounty was supposed to take place, and under those circumstances it had been quite okay to let the spellsword do as he had requested.

However, Entreri snorted.

"Of course she'd be with their leader. _This_ is the smart part of the group, after all," he said.

Again, the truth. Pity that they hadn't figured it out _before_ the ambush, the trapped hike through the woods or the final assault on the barricaded hill wherein magic, arrows and bolts alike had rained down on them while they tried to negotiate their way up – trying being the operative word, because, for once, it had actually taken a serious effort in their part. If they had been attempting to pull another surprise attack, it would have been busted for sure and, truth be told, the only thing that had saved them from the humiliation of implementing a _failing plan_ was the fact that they didn't know where it should have been prepared.

Thinking back, though, it was pretty obvious that only the best had managed to escape the first round. They were the best fighters, because they had been able to figure out their chances at winning against the foursome (next the null); the smartest, because they had found a way out of the melee unscathed (and that was saying something); the most unscrupulous, because they hadn't tried to get anyone out of the massacre with them (knowing they'd only be dead weight).

All in all, only those closest to perfect were facing them in this second assault. It might sound kind of appalling and slightly grim, but there was another factor that made the venture a bit easier: they had proven to be the most ambitious, too. Not content with surviving a scuffle with Death, they had gone right up and challenged the best in its own den.

Metaphorical den, that is, because sure as hell that accursed hill was not their territory, and was doing very little to tilt things in the group's favor.

Whatever the case, though, by the time all the Hells broke loose they had already agreed that Rizolvir was allowed to go solo and dispatch the presumed leader, and the middle of the rush had been no place to discuss it.

It had hardly been a place to discuss anything, and anyway it was a topic that shouldn't be discussed, never mind the place.

So Jarlaxle shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as he possibly could and doing his best to sound accordingly.

"Well, would _you_ have told him to back off?"

Problem was that, unfortunately, the rogue wasn't feeling half as carefree as he was acting about the arrangements. His mind's eye kept seeing the very real, very dark, very _sadistic_ grin in Rizolvir's lips as he stated – didn't ask, didn't request – that the Fairy was his to kill. Then, they had managed to learn, between one fight and the next, that said Fairy was waiting far behind the lines with Greenest's Mayor's daughter…

When he added up both scenarios, no matter how hard he tried, he kept coming up one hostage short.

Artemis realized all this and weighed out his answer carefully.

"No," he said at length.

The Calishite had seen the smoldering fire burning low in the spellsword's eye, and he had recognized it. It was the look of a predator on the prowl, full of venom, with the excitement of the hunt underlying the killing intent.

And, if nothing else, he understood what it was like to measure up against your nemesis, be it an individual or a whole race.

It was a look he recognized, understood, and respected.

"Perhaps we should have sent the brat with him, though," he added, knowing that Jarlaxle's worries were well founded and figuring that Yria's calming effect on the other drow male should have been enough to fix the problem.

"What about me?" said then a decidedly feminine voice, and the duo halted their conversation to watch the approach of the flustered small figure.

Artemis was not going to admit it, not even to himself, but he had been kind of worried about the girl. She was really out of it, and while he knew that as a magic caster she didn't need to be particularly fit, to his eyes it was getting ridiculous.

In her defense, though, it can be said that it had been a hard way up, and they had relied quite heavily on her magic to avoid being used as pin cushions while they progressed – before this one show, Entreri had had no idea that whole _arrows_ could be melted away in mid-flight by a well placed wall of flames, or that different versions of spells usually designed to spread out destruction could actually be useful in counter-casting.

So while he wished that she wouldn't get so deathly pale and tired after a simple run up a hill, and that she wouldn't lag behind them just to check the spoils left in their wake, there really weren't that many things he could reasonably complain about.

"Never you mind it," he said with a sigh.

Jarlaxle laughed beside him while Yria joined them, sauntering over completely unaffected by the carnage produced by the bandit's last stand, and stopping every now and then to check this or that item.

"She would probably have made it worse," Jarlaxle mumbled before switching his optimism in place, bracing himself against whatever was to come now.

Entreri somehow doubted that would be the case, but he kept quiet as the three of them made their way towards the lone stone hut decorating the top of the hill and housing the hostage, the bandit leader, and their missing comrade.

o O o

The three wizards that lent their talents to the criminals were prepared to see a lot of things, but thankfully planeshifting was not one of them and so an ethereal Rizolvir could rush past the obstacles undetected, barely giving them a spare thought. The Prime Material was close enough that he could see and feel where he was going, but everything was blurry and faded, though. He didn't dwell too long in contemplating it anyway: getting over those obstacles was the others' job, not his, and even though he was slightly concerned in some deep level he could not afford to stop to think about it.

There were other things he had to focus on – for instance, the square stone hut that soon enough stood before him, where he _knew_ that the Fairy was hiding, waiting.

Rizolvir stopped right before the door, which looked as solid in the Ethereal Plane as it would in the Material, and he realized that it was a magical construct. He had read about it once or twice while he trained as a wizard, a spell that called forth a refuge of solid stone, invulnerable from all the Planes, provided with a single entryway, but he had never bothered to learn it. It wasn't all that useful in his expertise field.

Now he lamented it, though, because he had no means to take advantage of the situation. And it seemed that this enemy might be quite worthy if he had such magics as his disposal, too.

Ah, well. There was no helping it, Rizolvir thought with a dark smile as his etherealness spell wore off and he was popped back into the Prime.

He was going to have to do this the traditional way.

As soon as he found himself in solid ground again, the drow kicked his boot forward, slamming against the solid wooden door. It was closed, but not secured, and it gave way with a dry sound, leaving a small hall in sight.

_How did you know that the door would open without frying you on the spot via trap?, _a curious Enserric wondered aloud in the back of Rizolvir's mind.

The drow closed the door again behind him, hoping that, combined with the others attacking the front, it would be enough to keep any and all bandits out. Then, he carefully examined his surroundings, clearly ignoring his sword.

_Hey, don't play deaf with me, pal! … Hold on a moment… you don't mean to say that you didn't know at all…? Oh my. _I_'m in your _head_. Of _course _you didn't know…_

"_You complain much too loudly for someone who was _begging_ for some action," _Rizolvir finally said._ "But still, I was pretty sure about my actions even if I confess to not being positive."_

_Really? Care to explain why?, _an annoyed Enserric grumbled.

"_He wants this fight," _the spellsword answered with a shrug that hid his excitement_. "Almost as much as I do."_

The sentient sword smirked at the thought of elven blood, and the warrior mage could feel the blade's thirst through their bond.

_This should be highly entertaining, then. _

"_Indeed."_

Rizolvir walked into the refuge, which seemed to be slightly bigger on the inside than its outside view might have suggested, leaving the hall behind and discovering a single room that took up all the structure. It was empty of all furniture, curiously enough: there was just a ladder on the other side leading up, and a suit of armor standing in the middle of it all.

Or rather, half a suit of armor floating over the middle.

_I thought you said that the elf wanted this fight? _Enserric commented snidely with the drow's hands brought the twin swords to bear against the animated guardian.

_"He does,"_ Rizolvir's annoyed mental voice answered. _"But that does not mean that he wants to be surprised when it finally comes,"_ he added after sidestepping a sword trust meant for his gut.

_Oh, so this is some kind of alarm to warn him and buy him some extra time? _the sword asked curiously.

"_I would dare to say so, yes."_

And as an alarm, it had to work magnificently… How could one _not_ hear all that metal trashing about?

_That's quite clever,_ Enserric piped up after a moment's contemplation. _Mind the gauntlet, please!_

Rizolvir shifted his off hand blade to engage the armor's sword, and then he gracefully twisted and rotated, adding his own momentum to that of the guardian and getting his head smoothly away from collision course with the steel fist.

_That was quite the pretty move, pal!_ And it felt awfully familiar to the devilish sword too. It had seen it somewhere before… but the specifics were totally escaping it.

It gave a mental shrug.

_Hey, why don't you do this kind of cool flashy thing anyway?_ it asked suddenly.

Rizolvir frowned in confusion as he delivered two slashes in a row against the floating cuirass.

"_I thought you had just implied that my move was 'cool'?"_

_Left leg_, the sword pointed out, and the drow kicked out hard and fast with his left boot.

It created an opening good enough to stab Enserric trough.

_Awk, that was quite tastless_, it mumbled off-handedly before deigning to answer its master. _I didn't mean the moves, pal. I meant the flashy house and guardians and all that!_

Rizolvir ducked, twirled and shrugged.

_"I am a transmogrifier, Enserric. I specialize in transmutation and, more specifically, in weapon enchanting… This is definitely not my thing."_

Suddenly, the drow changed the tempo and angle of this attacks, coming in from the opposite side.

There was a screeching sound, and the whole suit collapsed to the floor.

"_Besides,"_ he added with a smirk, _"this 'cool flashy things' are just too weak to deserve my attention."_

Rizolvir sheathed his weapons to climb the ladder just in time to miss a low, amused mental chuckle.

_Cocky bastard…_

The sight awaiting them upstairs was pretty much as the spellsword had predicted, though, so perhaps he had some reasons to be cocky.

It was another empty room, but, instead of having an armor in the middle, there were a smiling sun elf and a young human female.

Rizolvir hauled himself up completely and immediately drew his longswords, his red gaze never leaving the Fairy in front of him.

The surfacer had a naked rapier in hand and was holding a gauche to the hostage's throat quite calmly while he observed his ebony skinned cousin.

Seeing the drow standing before him in the silent room, well-illuminated and away from the heat of battle, made the scene look like some kind of mirage. It was funny, Jel'al thought, and the surreal effect actually held until he looked into those glowing ruby eyes.

The elf felt his thin lips pull back in a smile, wishing to spill the dark elf's cursed blood, wondering whether the vital fluid would be as tantalizing as those orbs or if the drow's dark nature would have turn it into black ichors to match the rotten heart of the whole race…

And his enemy actually let him stare, and stared back just as intensely in turn. Jel'al didn't know for how long it would have gone on like that, if not for the scared gasp of Mialeena.

He made an annoyed sound – threatened and subjugated, and that foolish girl still managed to grate on his nerves. But he had to admit that it was fairly amusing to see that she was more scared of her would-be rescuer than of her _captor_.

The blonde started to tremble, and with a sigh the elf decided that it was time to break the stalemate.

"If you try to attack me, I will kill her," he said serenely.

Rizolvir's face didn't change expression at all as he shrugged slowly and walked forth with a non-threatening air all about him until he stopped right in front of the pair.

"Remember, drow," Jel'al spat, "one funny movement and she dies."

Again, Rizolvir shrugged.

"I could very well kill _you_ stabbing _through_ her at this distance, though," he said in a matter of fact tone.

The Mayor's daughter squealed in pure terror, and a small tear made its way out of her widened eyes. She even attempted to struggle feebly, and the drow smiled inwardly.

"But you won't dare to kill the hostage," Jel'al said then, twisting the gauche and drawing some blood. "You've been told to rescue her, so if she dies, Greenest will immediately execute you, even if it wasn't you who killed her. Or do you think they will let a filthy _drow_ get away?"

Yet another shrug.

"I seriously doubt that Greenest _can_ muster up the courage to so much as confront me," Rizolvir answered, tiring quickly of the game.

He wanted to fight the elf, not to chat with him. If the Fairy was just going to hang around attempting to manipulate a drow and buying time while cowering and hiding behind a human child, then he was done with the Fairy.

Letting the mask of collected calm drop in order to show all of his hatred and contemp, he brought his weapons with lightning speed.

"If those are your arguments, I believe this ends now."

He was going to plunge through the small body to kill the elf, he really was.

But at the last possible instant, he went and thought of Yria. She _would_ be disappointed in him if she couldn't get her bounty because of his actions, he thought with an inward curse.

He pulled back with all he had, thinking on his feet and offering the elf bandit an opening that was too good to miss.

And sure enough, Jel'al moved the gauche away from the girl's neck –

-and plunged it right into Rizolvir's clavicle.

The drow hissed in pain – okay, perhaps it _had_ been too good of an opening.

Rizolvir jerked away and slashed wildly with his right-hand sword, making the other elf smile at his lack of control while taking cover behind the human.

It was too easy, Jel'al thought.

Only when the ornate blade made an abrupt turn just a hair's breath away from the young woman's neck did the sun elf realize that he had been clearly outmatched.

There was a glint in red eyes, a plain iron blade coming in from no one knew where, and a movement too fast for untrained eyes to follow.

The long, blond hair of the Mayor's daughter shifted in the breeze caused by the swords, an elven head hit the ground with a soft 'thud', and Mialeena found herself falling into someone's chest.

Instantly, ebony hands reached up and steadied her – the weapons already sheathed on the drow's slim hips – and she could only look up into ruby eyes in a daze for the longest heartbeats.

It seemed like forever before she realized that the room was actually crowded and that they had had public.

"Wow," Yria said, arching an eyebrow. "That was… impressive."

o O o

Everybody who was anybody in Greenest had gathered in the inn's common room.

They had gone so far so as to throw an impromptu _party_. And it was all to celebrate _them_, too.

The idea was quite baffling, and, if Artemis Entreri didn't hate crowds so much, he might even have enjoyed it.

Or at least stayed around long enough to revel on the sheer irony of it all.

As it was, though, the Calishite had conspicuously stepped away as soon as humanly possible, content with leaving the re-telling of their exploits in the capable hands of his companions, more suited and inclined to the task.

The sour assassin had to smile as he pictured Jarlaxle's likely antics and exaggeration – if he usually was too loud and cheerful to stand, it must be quite a sight to see him acting in front of a _willing_ audience.

Entreri leaned back against the shadowed wall in the back of the inn, and simply tried to clear his mind from all the events that had led up to this point.

But it was common knowledge that Entreri disliked gods, and so a surely spited Lady Luck decided that such a nice and undisturbed evening for the man was not to be.

Quick, barely audible steps hurried away from the light and the warmth of the inn, and obviously the person in a hasty retreat ended up standing before Artemis.

As if there were no _other_ dark, secluded spots to retreat to.

The assassin sighed and hoped that whoever it was, it'd go away and leave him alone… but when he lazily lifted his gaze and caught a glimpse of white, he knew that he was trapped.

"Not enjoying your moment of glory?" he asked with a somewhat perverse smirk, telling himself that he had _not_ sighed in relief at finding out who his company was.

"I would rather not have it, thank you very much," Rizolvir answered softly, going to sit besides the other man. Truth be told, not only he disliked being the center of attention… he didn't even understand why he had been turned into the evening's beacon!

"That's what happens when you go around sweeping damsels in distress off their feet," the assassin said , giving a shallow chuckle at the drow's ply.

"I was actually intending to pierce through her, but then I realized such an action would prevent us from claiming the bounty," the spellsword tried to explain.

"And Jarlaxle loves you for your moment of enlightenment, I assure you."

Rizolvir laughed softly, trying to keep the sound to a minimum so the party-goers wouldn't find them and drag them back, and then they settled in a companionable silence, sipping from their drinks and thinking.

"Are you pursuing Yria as a prospective husband in order to ensure your rank within the House?" the spellsword blurted out suddenly.

"What?" Entreri choked on his drink.

He didn't know why he was choking, because there were so many choke-causing things on that one short sentence, but choke he did.

He blinked and spurted, his cool façade shattered beyond repair for the time being, as he turned wide eyes on his partner, his mind churning and trying to make sense of such a question.

"Wh…?" Getting married, he? Could those words even go together?

"What?" Pursue Yria… being burdened with underdeveloped, loud, obnoxious Yria… willingly?

Rizolvir merely waited, hoping that he would get more than one monosyllable out of Entreri, and then something clicked in place with the man and he decided what he had been choking about.

"What House are you talking about?" Artemis hissed in sudden anger, his gray eyes cold and narrowed to thin slits. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'll never go back to the drow, do you hear me? Never again… I'll kill anyone trying to enslave me in your cursed society."

"I was not considering you to be part of the slave force," Rizolvir answered the look that said very clearly, 'you included'. Then, the drow paused and frowned, realizing that he actually hadn't been thinking of Artemis as a slave… not even as _Iblith_.

"What, then?" Entreri asked bitterly, his anger barely held in check by the surprising statement.

"Weapons Master."

The drow answered, a bit startled himself, and the assassin saw and heard in that tone that it was the truth.

Artemis shifted his gaze ahead again. He still didn't want to be part of any drow House, drow Organization, drow Group or anything drow, but he had to admit and acknowledge the meaning behind Rizolvir's words.

The spellsword was telling him that he was considered an _equal_, and the Calishite guessed that that alone should let the dark elf off the hook of his dark rage.

After all, it was the first drow ever in thinking so.

"If I'm the Weapons Master, what's Jarlaxle?" he asked lightly, and _that_ was as close to a peace offering he was getting.

Rizolvir took a sip of his drink and thought it over before answering.

"I figure he would be the High Mage," he said at length, "though he does seem to fall closer to High Priestess at times…"

Artemis smirked at the mental image brought by that thought, and the companionable silence returned once more.

"I take it you are not interested in the role of Patron, then?" Rizolvir asked again softly.

"Not at all," the Calishite answered immediately, suppressing a shudder at the thought.

The spellsword nodded and leant back against the wall, satisfied with his answers. Aside from the whole competition business, he was feeling strangely elated to not have to fight the man.

It was good to have someone to hide with while the others were being their usual flamboyant selves, he thought while he listened to the distant chatter and the merry music that still came clear from the inn's many windows.

Another traitorous thought crossed Rizolvir's mind then, and the drow cut a surreptitious gaze to the man by his side.

There was something he had been wondering about, and the doubts had only gotten bigger after the rescue of Mialeena and the kid's excited recounting of his deed to any and all who would hear her out… Perhaps he could use this quiet moment to his advantage.

"Artemis," he called barely above a whisper.

It was, after all, a private matter he wished to discuss.

He got a grunt as response, and decided that, coming from Entreri, any answer at all should be considered a positive thing, so he went on.

"You belong to the human race, do you not?" he started.

The assassin turned his head with a snap, fixing the drow with an interrogating half-glare.

"May I ask you a question on this topic?"

Entreri sighed. It seemed to be the night for weird conversations, but if he refused, a longer discussion was bound to ensue. And besides, he was a bit curious about what the question might be, so he shrugged.

"Go ahead."

Rizolvir turned the words over in his mind, thinking about Mialeena, and her actions and words that night, before he had been able to escape the party. In a way, he had felt like back in Lith My'athar: like prey, with a female hunting on the wings. He thought he had been reading it properly, but then he compared it with what he had observed on Yria and it didn't match… which puzzled him out terribly. They were both human females of roughly the same age, were they not? So why was it all so contradictory?

He realized that he had been silent for a bit too long, and finally decided to ask for clarification.

"What is the correct and healthy age for a human to start having sexual intercourses?"

Entreri choked again.


	9. Reunions and executive meetings

A/N: _I can't remember any other chapter being this hard to type. And I am not too happy about the result, either. Bummer. Anyway, here's the next chapter – special guests starring, too! Please, enjoy and let me know your opinions._

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**Reunions and executive meetings**

Kimmuriel focused his attention, zeroing in on that most peculiar presence that he could identify as 'Jarlaxle' even in his deepest reverie.

Then, the psion took a moment to steel his resolve and a blue, shimmering doorway appeared before his very eyes.

Carefully, oh-so-carefully, his mind's eye reached out and tried to find his former leader on the other side, as well as anyone else who might have been around. There were a few unsavory presences that were bound to be human; he was almost sure that he could feel the bitter soul of the assassin and that the dark lifeforce standing restlessly there could only belong to another drow… But there didn't seem to be much else going on.

Taking a step forth, half his body crossed over to the surface – just enough to allow him to peek cautiously around.

His dimensional door opened to a darkened room, where the grayish fingers of dawn were just starting to reach in. It was humble and painfully plain by drow standards, but it was smartly clean, and, if the psion was correct in his assumptions and it was indeed an inn's room, then in was quite spacious, as it accommodated four crisp beds without crowding the lodgings.

It looked fairly safe, he deduced with a resolute nod before crossing all the way through.

Because Kimmuriel Oblodra was _not_ going to get trampled by _Iblith_ twice.

But it seemed like he was not going to pull a decent entrance in front of Jarlaxle's new associates either, because he could have _sworn_ that that bedside table hadn't been there while he surveyed the room.

The powerful psion spent a few moments glaring darkly at the offending object that had dared to make him trip before an amused chortle interrupted him.

There, sitting comfortable on a bed, was a hatless, bootless, bald dark elf who apparently found his former lieutenant's mishap to be most entertaining.

There was a perfectly good reason for the psion's visit beyond earning him a throbbing knee courtesy of surface furniture, though, and Kimmuriel kept thinking it over again and again like a mantra to keep from turning heel on that cretin and going back home.

"Why, Kimmuriel," the mercenary leader finally said with a huge grin, "this is such a pleasant surprise! You've paid me a visit of your own volition, and twice in a row, no less!" Jarlaxle waggled his eyebrows in a mock suggestive gesture. "Are you finally taking a liking to the light or are you missing me that badly?"

Kimmuriel wasn't even going to acknowledge that with an answer. Besides, the only answer it deserved was a snort, if anything, and the psion did not do snorting.

… There was a snort.

Kimmuriel blinked.

Then, he realized that Jarlaxle's eyes had shifted to a spot behind his left shoulder, and he craned his neck around to follow the garnet gaze. Leaning against the room's windowsill, his eyes found the relaxed figure of Jarlaxle's own drow companion, Rizolvir. The dark elf wasn't wearing his leathers, and he looked like he was perfectly at ease, but Kimmuriel knew better: there was a definite amount of turmoil currently surrounding that elf, though it wasn't threatening to his person or to Jarlaxle, so he let it go – and cursed himself repeatedly for checking on Jarlaxle's safety just as instinctively as his own.

Lolth and all the denizens of the Demonweb Pits knew that that one didn't need to be babysat, as it was proven by the troublemaker's own remark.

"Ah-ha! You finally come out of your cloud of gloom, my friend?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," replied the other with a soft smile that said that he knew exactly what the older male was getting at.

Kimmuriel narrowed his eyes. He was witnessing yet another one of Jarlaxle's shows, and it was easily recognizable as such, but the Baenre was happily bantering away in a more relaxed way than the psion had seen in a long, long while.

"This must be serious!" Jarlaxle kept going with exaggerated gestures. "Your worry seems to have impaired your mind! It'd never do for you to lose your wits, I _told_ you that you needed to unwind…"

"I would hardly unwind while surrounded by scores of _Iblith_ bumping into me," Rizolvir answered casually.

Jarlaxle opened his visible eye like a saucer an pointed a shaking finger at Rizolvir, doing a fairly good impersonation of a horror-stricken face.

If Kimmuriel weren't getting so pissed at being ignored, he'd have wondered at how much of the mirth reflected on his old leader's eyes was genuine.

As it was, he breathed deeply and started to count to ten.

"So you admit that you need to unwind!" Jarlaxle gasped.

"I did not say any such a thing," Rizolvir said with a slight frown, finally tearing his eyes from the window to stare back at Jarlaxle.

"You didn't deny it, and that's almost as good as a straight confession!" Jarlaxle promptly turned to yet another corner of the room, his gaze sweeping over Kimmuriel as he bent to the task of unraveling a mystery the importance of which only he could appreciate.

"Artemis!" he said, dangerously close to yelling. There was a soft, pained groan by way of an answer, and the rogue plunged on.

Kimmuriel decided that he should count up to fifty. Ten was just too close a number.

"Artemis, what did you do to Rizolvir? He wasn't like this before you snatched him away during the party!"

One gray eye cracked open, and the assassin stared hard in Jarlaxle's general direction. He was too tired to muster up a fully powered glare.

"I didn't 'snatch' anyone," he said curtly. "He fled."

"I did not flee."

"Did too."

"… It is going down as strategic withdrawal."

"It's called 'fleeing'. There's no shame in it, though: those events are sheer torture to any sane person."

"I happen to quite enjoy parties!" Jarlaxle piped in.

"Hence the use of the word 'sane'," Entreri answered with s shrug, closing his eye again and ignoring Jarlaxle's pout.

Jarlaxle looked crestfallen for all of 30 seconds.

"Well, I still want to know what that air of despair is all about," he said at length, addressing Rizolvir.

Kimmuriel positively bristled. He hadn't come all the way from Menzoberranzan to stand around completely ignored while undergoing exposure to the twisted shows of camaraderie of his former leader gone nuts with the lot of garbage he called his 'friends'. Besides, he had already counted all the way up to 200, and he still was failing miserably at cooling down.

"Jarlaxle," he said from his spot, a little forcefully.

"There is no air of despair to talk about," Rizolvir answered, smoothly ignoring the psion.

"Jarlaxle…" Kimmuriel's left eyebrow started to twitch.

"What would you call it, then?" the rogue pressed on.

"Jarlaxle?" the floor in which Kimmuriel was standing was heating up alarmingly, the particles excited and bouncing around more and more rapidly as the psionicist started to lose his always collected façade in face of a rising temper.

"Oh, come on, Jarlaxle. Just listen up to whatever your pet drow wants to say so that he can be on his way out again," Entreri interrupted the rogue's discussion, and though Kimmuriel knew that the man had actually interceded in a way that was favorable to him, he still wanted to send the particles that made up the assassin's body into a riot.

The fact that Jarlaxle scolded Artemis on his behalf went a little way towards making him feel better, though.

"Don't be like that, Artemis!" the former leader of Bregan D'aerthe was saying. "Kimmuriel has been nice enough to visit us, you should be a little more polite towards him!"

Kimmuriel saw his chance.

"If I have come to visit, it's because I have news to deliver."

"Yes, yes, of course… But I'm surprised nonetheless that you chose to come to report instead of waiting for us to ask," said Jarlaxle, finally getting back on track.

At this point, a lesser being would have surely gulped.

Because, what with the agitation of coming to the surface and the stress of being ignored, the psion had managed to completely overlook the 'why' he had to report.

This was Kimmuriel Oblodra though, and he didn't so much as blink.

"There had been complications," he admitted. "The research may not be continued any longer without clearly involving Bregan D'aerthe."

Jarlaxle's smile stayed firm, but his visible eye gleamed with the hardness of well tempered steel.

"Well," he said casually, "then go ahead and do involve Bregan D'aerthe."

"No," Kimmuriel said with a resolution that he wasn't feeling.

Jarlaxle's eyebrow shot up in silent questioning, and the psion heard the creaking of springs as the assassin shifted on his bed to better observe the scene unfolding. Even the detached spellsword was turning around to see what happened, and Kimmuriel understood how much more difficult this made his task: he wasn't only going against Jarlaxle's wishes, he was also doing so in front of people who should think of Jarlaxle as some almighty individual of endless resources.

He had a feeling that the Baenre would not appreciate him enlightening his small entourage, but someone had to break the news that even Jarlaxle's reach had its limits. There was nothing else he could do.

"You gave me rule of Bregan D'aerthe because you knew that I would keep the band safe from the ever-hungry Matron Mothers, from innate drow destructive tendencies and from any rival that might have seen fit to arise in your absence," he started. "But you also put me in charge so that your band would remain firm while you ran off pursuing whatever lunacy you're pursuing here on the surface. There is no profit to be found in playing along any longer, Jarlaxle. Furthermore, there is no _survival_ is we openly start pursuing our own goals."

"So you can't hide a simple research?" Jarlaxle wondered aloud in the tense silence that ensued. "Since when is it so easy to spy on the main spying organization of Menzoberranzan?"

"It's not a matter of spying," Kimmuriel said waving a hand dismissively. "It's them. The Shadovar are coming to get your accursed book by the score, and there's just so much plane shifting that can go unnoticed. A Master of Sorcere, or even the Archmage himself might take an interest in the amount of shadowstuff leaking around the Clawrift lately; that is, if the full-scale battles we're having to fight day in and day _in_ don't alert someone else first. And things are only going to get worse: that book and those Shadovar need to be out of Menzoberranzan, now."

Jarlaxle frowned, a shimmer of frustration and anger crossing his eye. However, he understood what Kimmuriel meant – and he couldn't rightfully say that the psion was wrong. He had, after all, made a good choice of a temporary replacement.

He looked out the window for a moment, and saw the first rays of sun starting to color the sky: with a sigh, he reached out for one of his boots and started to pull it on.

"Let's go," he said. "We'll discuss this over some breakfast downstairs."

"What about breakfast?" said a cavernous voice from over the one bed that had remained silent up to that point.

Kimmuriel didn't wince, didn't startle, didn't flinch, didn't even attempt to blast the owner of the voice apart. He patted himself on the back for it, too – it was not everyday that one stood before such an apparition _and_ managed to retain a stoic front.

Jarlaxle chuckled, and on a second look, the psion thought he recognized the small sorceress that had been introduced to him as Yria Ingerd in the otherworldly lump of covers and… was that hair?

The girl pushed her unruly mane out of her face, rubbing sleepy eyes that were still a bit red from a late night in a definite childish way, and then she looked around the room, barely noticing Kimmuriel, before sitting up and informing no one in particular,

"I'm hungry. I thought we were going to have breakfast?"

Breakfast was the only meal Yria really cared about, and though her love for pastries and coffee was nowhere close to her lust for gold, it did provide a good reason for getting out of bed.

The sorceress was _so_ not a morning person.

Perhaps that's what made up the others' minds – no point in taking a grumpy zombie down, and besides she would likely scare the cook, which would result in a late breakfast and a fireballed kitchen. Or perhaps it was Kimmuriel's complete refusal to go down and associate with surfacers – oh, the sheer indignity of the thought… Or maybe it was just the need to be lazy and actually spend a morning in when it was so rare for them to take a break – though Jarlaxle would never confess to that, and Entreri would probably kill whoever presented him with the idea.

The only important thing, though, is that in the end they got room service. And that was just as well, because there was some sensitive stuff that shouldn't be talked about in the common room of an inn.

Besides, they got it for free: how were the heroes of the day before going to be refused?

Ah, there _were_ some perk points about being the good guys.

"So," Jarlaxle said between two sips of coffee, "first things first: what _can_ you tell me?"

Kimmuriel straightened his back out of habit – not that it actually could get any straighter – and pried his eyes off the most… interesting sight of Yria finishing up the last crumbs of her meal.

_Iblith_ eating speed and manners had left him thoroughly fazed.

He shook his head though: he was dealing with a displeased Jarlaxle. That alone was dangerous enough to warrant his full attention.

"It would seem what we were right in out assumptions: the interest the Shadovar are displaying for the book on golems is too great to be justified any other way."

"What kind of interest are we talking about?" Entreri interrupted.

The psion gave him a venomous look, but answered all the same.

"We've had to deal with a dozen thieves, three mages of varying degrees of talent, and what can only be described as a war priest. In addition," and he turned, fixing his attention on Jarlaxle and making sure that his point was understood, "our headquarters have been scouted at least in three occasions. Only the fact that I've been moving the item around constantly accounts for it still being in our possession."

Jarlaxle stayed calm, but he cursed inwardly. Over a score worth of portals opening in the same area of the city in such a short amount of time would very well be noticeable. Too noticeable for comfort.

Still, that didn't mean that he was going to enjoy the next words coming out of Kimmuriel's mouth, even if he realized that they were logical.

"We've had time to determine that the most likely method followed will be a repeat of the same spell that destroyed the Weave in the first place, back when the Netherese empire disappeared. This spell, we've learned, was developed and performed in the city known as Undretide, and that's as far as I can go with Bregan D'aerthe."

"Undretide? Isn't that the city with the badger?" Entreri asked suddenly, effectively interrupting any discussion that was to come from Jarlaxle.

Begrudgingly, the psion admitted to being grateful to the assassin for small favors.

Then he blinked.

… Badgers?

He had an inkling that he didn't want to now the details.

"Yep," Yria said, gulping down the remnants of her juice and distracting the former lieutenant from his line of thought. "It's buried deep under the sands of Anaurok now though, so there's no easy way to get there. Besides, most, if not all, of the Archwizard's Tower must have been transferred to the Shadow Plane by now. It's a pity I don't have the portable portal anymore… We could have reached the shadow twin of Undretide without a sweat from my realm."

Silence.

A few blinks of total confusion from each pair of eyes in the room.

"Yria…? You… do own a shadow realm?" Rizolvir asked with a small voice, his mind reeling from the implications and the _power_.

"Yes," she said before noticing the looks that were set on her.

She smiled nervously.

"Erhm… No? … Maybe?"

Jarlaxle sighed deeply.

So much for the person making all the speeches about not being secretive and sharing information with the group.

"Why don't you tell us the whole story?"

"I tried to tell you guys the whole story," Yria said, looking quite sly, "but no one seemed interested in hearing me at the time."

Ouch.

The rogue decided that today was not definitely a good day, neither for his image nor for his ego.

"Alright, tell us again, please. We will be paying attention, promise!"

Yria stopped a moment to gather her thoughts and organize her memories, her childish features getting a far-away look that didn't fit her otherwise carefree eyes.

Kimmuriel narrowed his gaze – there was quite a depth to that _Iblith_ female that couldn't be comprehended at a first glance – and decided to open his ears and listen, leaving his hurry to be back home quietly stored away.

Knowledge was knowledge, no matter where it was coming from: it was always valuable.

"Well, it happened at the end of the quest for the Wind hidden in the Archmage's Tower. It was pretty hard, getting to the upper levels, on account of half the tower being missing, but when I did manage to get up there, I realized that something had been slightly quicker than me. It wasn't too bad, though, because the idiot had left a small portal open, so I just followed through and recovered the Wind. Of course, the recovery process involved kicking the idiot to next week – and yes, I'm going to keep referring to it as 'idiot' because I'm not really all that sure about what kind of creature it was.

"Anyway, the important thing is that the portal let to what looked for all that's holy like the shadow twin of the top of the Archmage's Tower: it was small, isolated, and it had one hell of a view. So I figured I'd take it with me, and it would come in handy when I had to negotiate the way down. Or, if nothing else, it'd sell pretty good…

"But when I tried to use it to facilitate the descent, it didn't take me straight to the shadow twin of the spot I was on: it opened to the very same secluded place as before. Only difference this time around was the presence of a human-sized, human-shaped, speaking shadow, who kindly welcomed me to my new realm. It explained that since I had defeated the previous ruler, now the spot belonged to me, which, may I add, was pretty cool. It left me stuck with jumping awkwardly around through the Shadow leaks left by the Shadovar in order to abandon the tower, though. And that wasn't cool at all."

When she fell silent, Entreri was the quickest recovering from her casual retelling of such bizarre adventures, perhaps because after the badger episode there was nothing that would really faze him. He arched an eyebrow, showing some interest in spite of himself.

"So you can plane-shift to the Shadow Plane?" he asked when nobody else spoke up.

"Ah, no."

"What do you mean, no?" Jarlaxle asked, bewildered. "You have just confessed to doing so!"

"I mean: no. I never had to do anything to move around back there, you know. I just had to… like… jump in those funny swirling pools, and then 'whoosh!' I was on the other side."

"Whoosh," Artemis deadpanned, and Kimmuriel had to struggle to hold back a snicker.

Yria shifted uncomfortably, and, luckily for her, Rizolvir chose that precise moment to come to the rescue, metaphorically speaking.

"I believe I can explain it," the warrior mage said. "The reason might be the shadow stones that the Shadovar posses, and that I am sure Yria collected in her ventures."

"Of course I collected them. They reached a damn fine price, too," she mumbled, and Rizolvir had to smirk.

In some respects, he knew her so well…

"In some places where the demiplanes are particularly close, it is easy to breach from one side to the other just aided by an item that is aligned to the destination Plane, either magically or naturally. I would certainly assume that the frontier was already stretched thin due to the massive migration of the tower that was taking place as Yria tried to accomplish her own goals."

"So why can't we just use these?" Jarlaxle asked, pulling out from one of his many pockets the small sample of shadow stone the group had gained in their earlier confrontation with the Shadovar.

Rizolvir just shrugged.

"I see no reason for the border to be weakened here. And while the stones might work in all instances for the Shadovar themselves, we must not forget that they are natives to the Shadow Plane and that their characteristics, magical and otherwise, differ vastly from our own."

"But," Kimmuriel said slowly, reminding everyone in the room of his presence, "that can still be useful to guide you through the plane towards the city of Shade from where it comes, and surely you can find Undretide from there."

"We'd have to cross over to the right plane first," Yria mused. "Can you get us there?" she asked, looking over to Rizolvir.

The spellsword flinched. He was still uneasy denying a female, and even though he knew that Yria would not punish him, it still amounted to a good amount of pain on his side – a completely different brand of incomprehensible pain that manifested itself at letting her down, but that not for strange was any less real.

"I am most sorry, Yria. That kind of spell never proved to be useful when I worked the forge, and so I did not add it to my spellbooks. Please, forgive my carelessness and my inability to foresee this eventuality."

Kimmuriel's head almost jerked when he hard the words and the tone coming from the warrior mage. It was the wrong language – common instead of drow – but still, he had heard that same discourse over a thousand times in Menzoberranzan. It was the speech of a male who had disgraced his Matron Mother, and given the circumstances and the speakers, he could barely mask his surprise.

"Ah, come on, Rizolvir. It was impossible for you to see this one coming, it's not like you're at fault here!"

Kimmuriel kept his expressions carefully neutral as he committed to memory the interaction between the drow male and the skinny _Iblith_ sorceress. If he had allowed his face to show anything, he'd be looking like a cat who had just eaten the whole bowl of figurative cream.

This information was just too juicy to pass up – and Jarlaxle had neglected to mention anything when he'd told him about his new companions. He almost wanted _not_ to offer his input in revenge, but he knew better than to toy with the drow who had defeated the almighty Matron Mother Baenre as a mere infant.

"I can help you with the plane shifting," he said calmly.

Entreri groaned in apparent despair – he did not want help, much less coming from a drow, and _much less_ coming from _this_ particular drow. Rizolvir just looked at him, waiting for the psion to reveal his trump card, and Yria… well, better not to analyze her expression too closely.

The important reaction, though, was the one coming from Jarlaxle. The rogue gave him a curious look.

"Why, Kimmuriel, I thought you couldn't help any longer."

"I can't involve Bregan D'aerthe any further, as I'm sure you understand," he explained. "That is not to say that I cannot lend you the resources needed to finish the investigation on your own."

Jarlaxle smiled wickedly, and Kimmuriel knew that he had just regained all favor lost due to his previous negative.

"Let us see this resources, then," the rogue said.

Kimmuriel nodded, and, with a thought, opened a blue dimensional door to his own personal quarters back in the Clawrift. He'd taken much longer to get to this point than he'd cared to plan for, but he was confident of things being under control.

And sure enough, as soon as the connection was stable, a figure stepped through and landed in the middle of the room, which was starting to become slightly too crowded for comfort.

The figure proved to be a relatively tall male drow, wearing a somewhat daring armor in red leather than showed off his lean build.

The new comer smirked genially and tossed his head to the side, pushing his long braid back over his shoulder to fall down his back as he surveyed the room he'd just stepped into.

Entreri bolted from the bed, his whole body tense and his hands reaching for his weapons even as he realized that it couldn't be.

"Do'Urden?" he ground out, taken completely off-guard and letting a thousand different emotions play across his face.

Deep, slanted lavender eyes turned to look at him with amusement before moving on to study the rest of the assembled people.

"Not quite," Kimmuriel said dryly, before focusing his attention on his former leader.

"Jarlaxle, let me introduce you to my lieutenant Eldath."

Eldath's eyes, however, had found and locked on someone else, and his smirk widened into a full-fledged smile.

"Why, hello Yria," the purple-eyed lieutenant purred. "Long time no see."


	10. Outsourcing agreement

A/N: _I haven't fallen off the face of the earth… sorry for worrying you guys. I've had some issues, though, and in all honestly I couldn't work my way through the plot kinks like that. It is mostly solved now, and I've taken the chance to write the ending of the series and a couple of scenes I know you all have been dying for, though. Now we just have to get to that point, right? This next chapter is a step in the right direction… Hope you enjoy it. Please, read, review, have fun and let me know about it. _

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**Outsourcing agreement**

Yria Ingerd did her very best to keep her wits while the known world spiraled out of control, crashing into deep lavender pools.

In all honesty, though, any normal girl was bound to lose it if _that_ kind of smile were to be aimed their way, so she did have some kind of excuse.

However, words like 'luscious' or 'sensuous' didn't have room in the sorceress' vocabulary – she didn't know them, much less apply them to qualify a smile. The closest she could come to using 'sinful' was referring to the way the sun would glint off a gold coin, so, as a matter of fact, the reasons why she was having a most understandable reaction weren't all that understandable.

To Yria, the faint sensation that suddenly there wasn't enough air in the room to breathe stemmed simply from the past being far too close to catching up with her for comfort.

It wasn't the first time that she stood toe to toe against Eldath.

She would rather forget it – hells, she would have forgotten all about it if Jarlaxle hadn't brought Future Markets up back when they met – , but the truth of the matter was that she had escaped death narrowly by sidestepping a fight against Eldath before, and she owed it all to a good set of circumstances, a blinding streak of luck, and an extra edge to her fast-talking provided by the knowledge of certain demise looming in the horizon. Eldath probably hadn't known it, hadn't even guessed that if a kobold had chosen to go up and strike her back at the time, then she would have had to kiss her life goodbye.

And the drow had had an elite squad of professional killers with magic backup at his command.

It had been a close call, and Yria's mouth had just run off while her brain shut down and gave up on the prospect of ever catching up to the words that had started to tumble from her lips. Before she knew it, she had bluffed her way through the situation, saying that she hoped to meet him again and waving merrily at certain doom.

Now, the gods had something against Yria. They liked to pit the world against her just to see what kind of enjoyment they could garner from the situation. They got their kicks out of spiting her, of watching how she pressed on with a smile on no matter the circumstances. They did not grant her wishes and they made a point of not fulfilling her hopes.

No matter how she looked at it, she wasn't supposed to have met Eldath again, under different circumstances, just as she had wished.

Bummer.

"Eldath," she said, trying not to stammer and to keep her looks relaxed, " why, what a surprise! I see life's treating you well?"

"Ah, yes," the former commander drawled, " I must admit that I have found some pleasant new paths to thread through in life, indeed."

From his corner, Rizolvir could feel the hair in the back of his neck standing on end, as if he'd just received an electrical discharge out of a spell gone awry.

It was a fitting comparison, too, though what had definitely gone wrong somewhere along the line hadn't been a spell, but the situation.

He knew a thing or two about fellows who where best left alone and not associating with, and the one standing right in front of him definitely belonged to that group. He'd know even if he wasn't as good as he was at reading people – rather, at reading other dark elves. He could have told anyone that this Eldath was trouble just witnessing the way he'd managed to weasel his way into their group, slithering through all complains presented by the drow who supposedly was his superior.

Of course, it could have been a well-devised ruse within a well-twisted plot, but the former smith failed to see what Kimmuriel stood to gain from planting a distrusted agent in their mist.

And on the other hand, the look of dismay had been too real for Jarlaxle's puppet to have faked it: it hadn't been planned, and that was it. Kimmuriel had honestly tried to prevent Eldath from joining them, and Rizolvir could only wonder at his reasons for doing so.

… Warning others and striving to prevent potential disasters was not in a drow's nature, so perhaps Kimmuriel was yet another odd member of dark elven society – Selvetarm knew that Yria was a magnet for misfits, himself included.

But this reasoning brought Rizolvir full circle: Eldath was bound to have a skeleton – or rather, a crypt big enough to worry a drow – on his personal trunk, and the way he was currently addressing Yria, as an overbearing and invading peer, only made the spellsword itch worse with the need to be rid of him.

He couldn't very well draw Enserric and spear the cocky newcomer, but at the very least he could move and stand by Yria's side – and glare enough daggers at the source of his discomfort to make sure that his feelings of open hostility got across.

And the point was surely getting across, but it did seem that Eldath could care less about it.

"Life's all kinds of interesting now," he was saying, "and it's all thanks to you."

Yria, though, did care and became very conscious of the warm presence suddenly hovering by her side, and she couldn't help but feel most grateful.

She knew that technically she wasn't hiding behind Rizolvir's back, but the feeling she got was almost as good as if she were.

"I knew you'd see my point," she said, making a superb job of ignoring the possible veiled threat in the drow's voice.

After all, she was quite sure that the people of Rashemen or Thay or somewhere far along that area did have a nice little saying, about there not being worse curse than living interesting times. Or something like that.

Okay, so she wasn't a scholar and her knowledge of general lore was fuzzy at best, but she knew better than to think that the wording used by Eldath was not deliberate.

Everything about his person was deliberate, carefully measured for effect and consequence, and if she had had any doubt in the matter, it was dissipated by his next words.

"Your point is very valid, and you made a most convincing defense of your views," Eldath nodded. "I'm glad to have found you again, for I'm sure there's more you can share with me now that the circumstances have changed and a whole array of new possibilities have been enabled."

The words themselves were innocent enough, but the tone was not. When combined with the suggestive look and the lopsided smile, the sentence was screaming 'double entendre' loud enough for even Yria to hear.

She sucked in a breath, and felt Rizolvir stiffen beside her. If she didn't knew any better, she could have sworn that she was pleased by _his_ such reaction, but it was not logical so she just blamed it on the very real nervousness she was experiencing.

In any case, her thoughts were interrupted soon enough. Eldath had always liked to be in control of the situation back when they had first met, and it seemed that, if nothing else, that still held true.

"For now, though," the elf said with a knowing smile, "I'd just like to return the favor and help you out. That's why Kimmuriel allowed me to come, after all."

Carefully, he pried a black iron ring from his middle finger and presented it to the sorceress.

"You may remember Jezz'ran, my right hand subordinate and my former patrol's appointed wizard," he explained. Yria remembered: it was a rather sour fellow who didn't like her all that much. "I've had him enchant this specially for the occasion. It'll take us all bodily over the frontier and to the Shadow Plane, and will allow us to stay there until the next order is given: at such time, it'll bring us back to the Prime Material twin of the precise spot we were at in the Shadow Plane. Neat, isn't it?"

"I am sure that I speak for all of us when I say that we are grateful for your help," Rizolvir spoke up, apparently having decided that just glaring was not nearly enough. "However, if you were to just provide us with the artifact, then we can do without having to rob Kimmuriel of your valued presence."

That was a rather polite way of saying, 'okay, drop your ring and get the hell out of my sight _now'_.

Eldath merely smirked.

"That wouldn't do. With this group's ability to travel through the wilderness, I'm afraid you'd never make it to Anauroch, much less to Undretide, on your own. I definitely must come."

The lieutenant took another step forward and held onto Yria's hands, looking over to the others to indicate that they all should hold together before he got the ring going.

"And now, if you'll be ready… let's get going, shall we?"

For once, Entreri was not the only one in a particularly foul mood.

As a matter of fact, and now that the assassin considered it, the only person who did behave as if everything was quite alright was the source of Artemis' own bitterness: Eldath himself. The purple eyed drow had been smiling cordially from the time he had stepped into the room, and that was worse than a string of haughtiness and death threats any day. Besides, while in normal circumstances the Calishite would have been delighted to have the stranger focusing all his slimy attention elsewhere and leaving him alone, he'd actually felt a pang of worry as the lieutenant chatted amiably with Yria.

It was true that Artemis wasn't exactly a people's person, and he might not know the scrawny sorceress all that well, but even he was able to tell, in an instinctual level if nothing else, that the girl was not in control of the situation – and to see a person whose most noticeable trait was the sheer strength of their personality being cornered was somehow disturbing.

And it wasn't just that. Not was it that Eldath was a drow – another dark elf to add to the lot. Mostly, the problem with Entreri was that he could feel a particular brand of craziness imprinted in the newcomer: one that he was extremely familiar with.

Gray eyes sought out the slim figure of a purple-hated drow and the stony assassin almost flinched.

Perhaps he had learned to read Jarlaxle too well for comfort.

He certainly wished he hadn't been able to read the look of mischievous curiosity and befuddled amusement in the rogue's face, because he had seen it before and he had worked out exactly what it meant: the master schemer was going for the thrill of the moment, choosing to experiment the refreshing joys of thinking on his own feet, as Jarlaxle himself would say.

Artemis, on his part, was a man of simpler terms. He preferred to say that that thrice-damned Jarlaxle was smelling something not quite right and had just decided to go on anyway just to see where the rotten fumes where coming from.

Without telling anybody, of course.

Without preparing in case things got out of hand.

He was going to risk his companions' necks, just for kicks.

Entreri would have slept definitely better if he hadn't possessed that information.

And, quite honestly, Jarlaxle _was_ going to sleep much better not knowing that his longtime partner had him so well figured out.

The rogue's garnet eye shone brightly as he proceeded to study Kimmuriel's very first choice of a lieutenant. Granted, it had been a bit of a forced choice, but the fact remained.

With his head slightly cocked to the side, Jarlaxle stared appreciatively at the fellow, figuring that it was a good add-on to his mercenary band.

Oh, yes, of course he could see the flare and the style and all that, but Jarlaxle, a drow who had been born with an eye-catching penchant, could see right through it.

He was not fooled by the smooth red armor, or the permanent pleased smile – he was used to seeing similar versions of attitude staring at him through the mirror, and he could recognize originality a mile off and surrounded by a cloud of darkness.

What they were being presented with was a carefully crafted façade, the work of a truly chameleonic dark elf doing his very best to achieve his goals. Those true goals, though, were as hidden as Eldath's true nature and he knew it.

Jarlaxle could tell when a person was born to be on the spotlight, and when they took that position because that suited their interests better, and Eldath was one of the latter.

The first lieutenant was an element of surprise, a possible independent player entering the turf, a shadow shrouded in mystery and wrapped tight in secrets.

Kimmuriel had seen that, too. Or rather, he smelt the possibility: surely that was why the psion had insisted that a mercenary of his own personal choosing accompanied them: someone from the old Bregan D'aerthe, whose loyalty to the Baenre scion and whose fear of Kimmuriel were unblemished and indubitable.

The idea had been refused, because even if Jarlaxle knew that Valas Hune was indeed the very best his band could offer and that enrolling the scout equaled to arriving to their destination sure as daybreak, he also knew that it was not wise. On the one hand, as Eldath had so eloquently argued, the larger the group the greater the magical strain and the easier to be detected by the plane's native lurkers. And on the other hand, he was aware of a limit to the amount of drow involvement that Artemis could put up with, and that limit was fast approaching.

So the rogue did his best to assure Kimmuriel, sent him back to the Underdark, and spent his energies in studying the drow in front of him.

For all he knew – and for all of Kimmuriel's comments – the newcomer could very well be a Shadovar agent. He was relatively new to Menzoberranzan, even if he had reached a position of certain power over there, and there were too many casual events involved in his showing up right before this plot took place.

Jarlaxle's eye narrowed in observation, and his fingertip tapped against his lower lip as a slow, insidious grin parted his visage.

He couldn't fathom what Eldath was going after, he didn't know whether this encounter was orchestrated or not. The only thing that he knew was that the lieutenant had an agenda, and that hopefully it'd not involve screwing them all over.

Indeed, the invigorating smell of adventure was in the air, and, with a huge grin, Jarlaxle held onto Eldath's shoulder with one hand as he offered the other one to a very reluctant looking Artemis.

Ah, this was bound to be fun!

…

Indeed, the plane shifting turned out to be a… most enlightening experience.

Light was _not_ supposed to be black, implosions _were_ supposed to hurt, and humanoid throats _shouldn't_ be able to force that kind of sound out.

And yet, the word was uttered, the way they were pulled on through the ring was pleasantly tingling, and they found themselves bathed by a jet glowing illumination in a world of grays.

The Shadow twin of their inn room was bleary and bleak, the luxuries its Material counterpart had held, faded and distorted into the quintessential functional bedroom that any adventurer craved for when lost in the innards of one dungeon or another.

The only note of color, the only hint of solidity, was their own bodies – and even then, only relatively: Entreri, for instance, could have blended in to the point of being invisible; Jarlaxle, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb.

Not that _that_ was anything new.

When the shifting was complete, Eldath waited a moment, riding out the power wave before letting go of Yria's hands. The others took this as their cue and stepped carefully aside, spreading out, their hands dropping to their weapons as they examined their entourage from their new perspective.

_You'd think that you were done with planar shifting, at least for a while longer,_ the annoying voice of Enserric said in the back of Rizolvir's head.

The drow bit back the need to say 'so did I', and answered with an acidic remark instead.

"_You deem it appropriate to wake up now?"_

_I was awake the whole time,_ the sword said smarmily. _It's just that I saw no reason to speak up before. It was way funnier to see _you_ bristling over that other drow. And by the way, you should be careful with him. _

Rizolvir had long ago learnt to trust the devilish sword, even if its advices came wrapped up in the most annoying comments ever, so he immediately went into alert mode.

"_What do you mean?"_

_I mean nothing because I don't know anything… but pal, soul-searching aside, anyone with eyes would know that he means business with your girl,_ the sword actually laughed, and its nasal barks of merriment were the one thing resonating in Rizolvir's head as the object of their conversation snapped his attention away from his inner world.

The lieutenant had opened the window to the room, which apparently was solid enough to be opened even if it didn't look like it, and was directing everyone to jump through.

He was only succeeding in earning himself a few really weird stares, and Eldath smirked at the open wariness of the group.

"The Shadow Plane touches the Prime Material, but you'll find that not all principles apply," he explained. "For example, there's little meaning to distances over here. There _are_ several thousand miles between Undretide and us, but we should be able to cover it in one, two days at worst, without breaking a sweat. In much the same manner, we are in a second story room, but it is easy – and painless- to jump, or, rather, step the distance to the floor.

"I'll go first and demonstrate, though I'd have thought that at the very least, a wizard would know what I'm talking about," he added, apparently without any malice and without realizing that he'd just insulted three magic-relying people in one go.

Such a wonderful, wonderful way to start their trip…


	11. Fading into black

A/N: _I hope you guys are still with me… I had hand surgery and couldn't type well enough to keep up with real life work and fiction at once. For that, I'm sorry. For the quality of this chapter I'm sorry too – I didn't really like the result, but oh well, it took me long enough. Please, enjoy it – and leave me a small review if you did._ (^^)

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**Fading into black**

Traveling around the Shadow Plane was the ultimate expression of will over matter. If you wanted your body to move, then it did. The distance, and the speed at which said distance was covered, depended solely on the concentration of one's own mind – it was as if the body just stood frozen in the middle of one awkward step, and the mind willed the shadowy landscape to shift about.

So, if it was a matter of control, Artemis Entreri would _love_ to know why it was turning out to be so damn tricky.

For the hundredth time, the assassin felt a light weight collapsing against his back, and the stoic man bit back a sigh. In normal circumstances, he'd have reacted quicker than the offending body, of course. He'd have sensed it approaching, would have twisted as a silent, deadly shadow in a world of shadows, and would have driven his vampiric dagger into the attacker's heart.

He had almost done that too, the first time he found himself being bulldozed over.

However, he simply threw a nasty glare over his shoulder, which was answered by a nervous chuckle and an apologizing smile as Yria picked herself back up and put a modicum of distance between them. She seemed to be having quite the amount of trouble at grasping the basics of movement, and, while usually he wouldn't have let her off the hook so easily, without expressing his murderous intent loud and clear, he just sighed and dropped the subject.

Because in normal circumstances, he'd be caught dead before clinging to Jarlaxle's rainbow cloak for guidance, so he just jotted it down to the general surrealism of the moment and let it go, along with the general weirdness of the whole excursion.

Artemis felt the cloak between his fingers be tugged forward, and the focused on following the floating plume of Jarlaxle's hat. The obnoxious drow was skipping – skipping! – ahead, arm in arm with a bewildered Rizolvir who kept throwing worried glanced over his shoulder.

The Calishite almost let a small smirk curl his lips at that. With the shock of the moment and the impromptu visit of Kimmuriel in the middle of the night, he had forgotten all the amusing things he had learned a few hours prior.

Thankfully, he remembered himself in time and merely lifted an eyebrow.

Rizolvir gave him a look that Artemis would rather just not decipher, and the assassin dropped a heavy hand upon Yria's shoulder, barely containing the need to say aloud, 'yes, I've got her'.

After all, exposing the spellsword to Jarlaxle's meddling nose and to Eldath's creepy presence was too cruel – though Entreri didn't even realize that he was harboring such good intentions.

A few feet ahead, Eldath watched the stumbling group and chuckled.

"It'd seem that your going around skills are rather slow in developing, uh?" he said, to no one in particular. "One would think that by now we would be actually moving ahead."

"We _are_ moving ahead," Yria grumbled, secretly grateful for the sudden and unexpected help provided by Entreri.

Said man nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to pick up a rhythm of a sort.

"Of course," he added under his breath, "for a given definition of 'moving'."

Jarlaxle tensed and stopped dead on his tracks, making Artemis collide against his back and forcing Rizolvir to contort oddly in order to keep his footing.

Hands flew to waiting sword hilts, and arcane power gathered in a washed down white ball of light, and everyone held their breaths.

"Did you hear that?" Jarlaxle whispered, tension flowing off of him in waves and head cocked to the side as if listening intently for a repeat of the phenomenon. "Was it… a joke?!" his ebony features parted, showing a dashing grin as he turned around, all amused mischief, to point an accusing finger at Artemis.

For the longest moment, there was silence.

Magic sizzled and died out.

Steel wrapped in leather scratched against leather studded with steel as a double-bladed sword was slung over a shoulder.

Then, Jarlaxle had the good sense of withdrawing his finger, lest he was deprived of it.

The dark elf gave a nervous chuckle.

"Why, Artemis, don't look at me like that," he said. "You have to understand my surprise, and admit that it is not often that we're given a sample of you clever wits…"

Probably, the Calishite's answer was not going to be very understanding, but the mercenary leader was somewhat saved from it by the opportune input of Eldath.

"Most amusing, yes. A one-in-a-lifetime comment, Jarlaxle. We all are having a good laugh thanks to it. Now, if only all this talent had been put to the task of controlling movement, we could have made good time before being detected."

Then again, a scolding didn't really count as saving, did it?

Jarlaxle blinked.

He couldn't even remember the last time he had been addressed with such disrespect.

It was so thrilling!

"Oh, but surely it was not my fault that we were discovered!" the rogue complained, bemusedly.

Eldath let a deep frown mar his handsome features, balancing his huge sword across his shoulders.

"We are moving slowly and clumsily. It was a matter of time, really. I was just hoping we'd get at least to Anauroch before they caught on to our presence."

"They?" Jarlaxle asked, a mix of anticipation and weariness in his voice.

"Yes, they," answered Eldath, nodding towards the horizon with a grim look. "Nightwalkers."

The nightwalkers… they were the native creatures of the Shadow Plane, the natural predators of a world of death, the end of the food chain.

And it showed.

They were the stuff of nightmares made solid. Holes of blackness in a dimension full of grays, the eight-foot tall humanoid figures loomed ever closer, their bodies blurred at the edges thanks to movement that wasn't quite _movement_. They exuded an air of evil intelligence that became apparent in the glowing, white depths of their huge, slanted eyes.

"Did you know we'd find them?" Artemis growled, all the tension he had been aiming at Jarlaxle suddenly redirected and morphed in deadly efficiency in lights of the incoming fight.

"_They_ were bound to find _us_," Eldath answered, unaffected by the barely veiled threat of the assassin, his whole attention focused on the clawed blackness that would soon be upon them. "This is their home, their hunting cottage. The best we could hope for was not anonymity, but _time_."

"And yet, you did not warn us," Rizolvir hissed, picking up what Entreri meant.

"There was no point. It was not avoidable, and anyway, all of you should know by now that the path to survival lies on being always ready," the lieutenant shrugged, taking a few steps to the side to give himself all the room he needed to fight.

The nightwalkers were almost within range.

"Still, a warning would have been the cool way to go," Yria's strained voice said as a dull ball of fire shot forwards, streaking through the overlapping shadows. "This is not very gentlemanly of you, Eldath," her tone was light and joking, as per usual when facing immediate danger, but there was a tense edge to her strained smile that spoke clearly of worry.

The reason as to why became apparent when the spell hit its intended target.

It exploded, but it wasn't an ear-splitting inferno, as it should have been.

The ball of flames collapsed upon itself and then expanded, a soft whispering shroud of lukewarm flames that engulfed two of the three approaching foes. The white fire danced upon their bodies and licked at their bottomless blackness, but succeeded in little more than slowing the creatures down, tearing enraged screeches from non existent throats.

"Sorry about that, Yria," Eldath said in the heavy silence that followed, flashing her a grin over his shoulder. "I'll keep it in mind for the next time."

"Yeah, you do that," the girl said, teeth gritted as she tried to think of another spell to fling.

Arcane power, pure white with faint traces of the lightest blue and purple, gathered between her open palms, and she barely had time to bark the first word of the incantation when the nightwalkers screamed and lunged, almost too fast for the eye to see.

Then, all Nine layers of the Hells broke loose.

Probably, the one who reacted fastest was Entreri, but the first to strike was still Jarlaxle.

After all, he was the closest thing they all had to ranged attack specialist.

Three and then five and then nine daggers flew in quick succession, almost a solid string of silver past Artemis' head and into the first nightwalker.

The projectiles struck true – how could it be otherwise with Jarlaxle – but again it was difficult to measure the damage done: there was no blood, and the weapons slid blandly off the darkness as if they had pierced more a syrupy liquid than actual flesh.

It was odd to witness, and even odder to feel it, as Entreri soon found out.

Taking advantage of the cover provided by Jarlaxle's first attack, the assassin slid forward and allowed Charon's Claw to slash a wide line across the creature's belly.

Immediately, he realized two things: one, his sword was actually tearing through the shadow, even if there was no physical evidence left to show it, and two…

Two, that blasted creature was even more dangerous than it looked.

As soon as he had stepped close enough, he had felt the invisible assault. It was a thick, almost _solid_ wave of the purest agony ever delivered to the Calishite.

Not because it was painful by itself, because Artemis knew how to endure pain, but because it rendered _him_ _weak_.

The weapons in his hands felt much heavier, the deadly dance he wove much more clumsy; his leather armor became much more impeding and his breath came in shorter puffs.

He could almost see himself slowing down under a burden he had never paid any mind to.

Still, he gritted his teeth against his traitorous body and convinced it to move just fast enough to block the creature's claws, who clearly thought he'd just stand like a statue and let it gut him.

With a grunt, he pushed the wicked fingers aside – noting how there damn claws _did_ seem to be solid enough, in spite of the rest of the body – and did the only logical thing he could think of.

"Stay back from it! This thing is poisonous!"

He warned Jarlaxle.

The rogue's visible eye widened in surprise, but the drow reacted so quickly that it could have been a trick of the observer's eye.

The twin slender blades that had elongated recovered their knife-like size in an instant, and were promptly replaced by the familiar throwing daggers.

The enchanted blades were in the air by the time Yria managed to finish her own spell, and both attacks struck simultaneously. The combined barrage was enough to take the blunt of the nightwalker's strength off of Entreri, and the assassin, his limbs powered by sheer anger at his own helplessness, got two slashes in before his foe jumped out of range.

It wasn't dead, but it was clear that it was mortally wounded: its blackness was pierced and torn, and the white of its eyes, while still fulgent, was starting to mix with the pitch black that surrounded them.

But the dizziness that had come over Entreri didn't fade with the sudden distance, and the was no time to savor the small victory anyway: there were two more beasts.

And while yes, it was true that it hadn't been too difficult to kill one opponent, at the time they had been focusing all their attacks in one enemy.

Fighting one versus one against the terrifying nightwalkers was another matter altogether.

… Or rather, two against one, as it seemed to be the case.

Unfortunately, it was not exactly Rizolvir and Eldath against one of the huge shadowy creatures, but rather the other way around.

Rizolvir seemed to be holding his own in a poor way; his twin swords weaving desperately under the weight of the poison while Eldath was carefully placed to the side: his double sword gleamed and twinkled and twisted in a deadly pattern, slashing once and again at the exposed backs of the nightwalkers before dancing out of reach again, untouched by the deadly claws that seemed to be able to cut darkness and steel alike, and furthermore, unaffected by the poison that the creatures breathed as part of their weaponry.

The fight may not have been going on for too long, but then again any true warrior new that important battles were over, or, at least, partially decided in the very first few minutes.

Which was why Rizolvir was so worried.

It didn't matter how fast he usually was, or how much he had buffered his own prowess before jumping into the fray with his own magic: in the end, his limbs were like lead, his muscles were unresponsive and, ultimately, his blades were weak.

Enserric chuckled in the back of his mind when a particularly desperate attempt to deflect the heavy, _sharp_ claws with his off blade failed. The supplementary weapon simply slid against the surface of the deep darkness, and it bumped off back again with the strength he had originally applied multiplied tenfold.

Rizolvir drowned a curse in his native tongue, and Enserric snickered from his corner, safely tucked away in the recesses of dark elf's mind.

_My, my_, the sword said, amused in spite of the danger his owner, and, by extension, itself, seemed to be in. _You were not really expecting to kill this outsiders with just any blade, right? Come on, pal, you're smarter than that, aren't you?_

Rizolvir didn't say anything.

To be honest, he was too busy trying to stay alive to bother with the biting remarks made by his own weapon. He just parried and parried, his red eyes darting around him and trying to locate the incoming back up in the form of his comrades.

A small part of his mind was deeply amused by this.

After all, what was a drow doing, trusting others, _relying_ on others to win a battle? No, that was not the way it was supposed to be. Drow fought alone, always alone. They won, or they died, but they never expected help.

However, even as he crossed Enserric over his secondary blade in an attempt to deviate a merciless claw while sidestepping the nightwalker closing in on his back, he realized that this was no longer the way he thought or the way he felt.

Rizolvir felt he no longer was able to think that way. He actually had come to rely on his companions, to trust them implicitly to have his back.

Enserric, though, not one to sit idle, snapped him out of his stupor and prodded him into action with a well placed barb

_He__y pal, are you sure you can afford to have an epiphany right now? Shouldn't you be, well, trying to kill this nightwalkers or something?_

And, thanks go to Selvetarm, they didn't chose that particular time to let him down.

And so, the drow slashed his wicked iron blade wildly, catching the creature across its forearm. Just as he was trying to parry the counterattack made by the shadowy predator, a stream of daggers entered his field of vision. It was probably the most relieving sight he had seen in a long, long time.

Besides, it actually reassured him in his newfound convictions.

The daggers, silver projectiles, imbedded themselves in the side of the nightwalker's neck, and it reared its head and stumbled back a couple of steps, giving Rizolvir the respite he needed to twirl around and try to contain the creeping death that was lurking behind him, still quite intent on eviscerate him in a rather inconsiderate way.

But the thing proved to be closer than expected, and Rizolvir found his position was much too awkward to deliver a blow, what with the deadly claws almost closing in on his neck.

Thinking on his feet and with a little prompting from Enserric, he quickly tucked his knees up to his chest and rolled to the side.

The daring movement served to slip him past the nightwalker's defenses, and on normal circumstances it would have been enough to give him a perfect chance to strike with his devilish sword, but Rizolvir had forgotten about the effects of the poison the dangerous predator breathed.

He found that he could hardly spring back to his feet – or, at least, he could not do it fast enough to take advantage of his previous maneuver.

He cast his red gaze around, wondering just where the hell that thrice-damned Eldath was hiding this time: if he didn't have to fight so completely alone against _these_ odds, then perhaps this battle wouldn't be so utterly desperate.

It was a tough blow to his pride, to make the admission, but the truth of the matter was that, while he had spent several decades retired from combat and being nothing but an artisan, Eldath was a finely honed warrior, was probably the best example of what drow culture could do to create a living weapon, and the wide arcs he carved with his double sword on the nightwalker's back was prove enough of that.

Rizolvir found himself whishing that those same blades were more willing now, that they would at least take care of one of the two menaces because he was starting to think that he had taken a bite much too big to chew alone.

His wish went unheeded, of course, so he simply shoved his blade through the nightwalker's calve, right in font of his nose without even bothering to force his battered body off the floor.

The was a screech of rage in protest, but nothing else.

Probably he would never have heard any other sounds, any other words; the huge scream of a creature who didn't have a mouth or a throat to scream with would have been the last thing he'd ever heard. His very mind was starting to slow down because of the influence of the noxious gases, and he could care about anything, but…

At that moment, on the massive claw of the humanoid was going to make contact, a deep, glowing red blade came across, acting as a shield and deflecting the nightwalker's lunge.

The most surprising thing, the thing that gave Rizolvir pause, was that he was not surprise to follow that red blood blade, up to a gauntleted hand, and up to the face of one Artemis Entreri.

Another precious epiphany he didn't have time to dwell on at the moment: he had been counting on the assassin to fight with him, as a well-timed team, just as they had done before. Was this perhaps the surface concept of friendship?

A flash of white light in the bleak world that surrounded them interrupted this most interesting musings, and once again Rizolvir was brought back to the situation at hand.

It had been a spell he had seen just once before performed by Yria, as it was not one she was very fond of.

It was quite consuming, and the damage it dealt was much more physical that her usual choices of arsenal, and that was probably the reasons she avoided to fall back on it at all costs; but the situation seemed to have grown worrisome enough for her to conjure up the black blade of disaster that had almost cleaved the nightwalker in half.

Even while the thing dissolved suddenly into the general grayness of the realm, Rizolvir knew that there was something very, very wrong with the spell.

Mostly, it was because, as the very name very kindly pointed out, the black blade of disaster had a tendency of being, well, black.

Certainly it was not supposed to be a glaring stick of the purest white that could be found in a world of shades; so white that it seemed to be a thunderbolt made solid.

And then, there was the second reason: the evocation was supposed to have a somewhat long duration; long enough to fight a whole fight in the casters' behalf.

It was simply not designed to expire right up after delivering the first blow..

He felt the immediate need to pull himself together, turn around, and check what was wrong with Yria, but he could not.

Not when there was yet another nightwalker right in front of them, barely held at bay by the steady stream of daggers produced by Jarlaxle.

The drow rogue's single garnet eye shone with determination and his usually smiling face was set in a grim line, but it was unlikely that his wrist could keep up with the launching speed forever.

Mustering all the will that he had at his disposal, Rizolvir teamed up with Artemis once again, trying to discard the toxins that were by then flowing freely along his veins.

The two worked together, in the routine they had perfected over the past few weeks, moving in for the kill of the last creature.

Or they tried to.

Rizolvir found that his body simply wouldn't obey his orders, wouldn't get up from its kneeling position. From a detached point of view, he saw a thick rivulet of blood running down leather-clad chest, and his elven ears barely picked up the sound of clattering steel.

The voice of Enserric and its ever helpful and biting advice faded from his mind, leaving barely an echo behind.

The spellsword wondered where Yria was before his world tilted dangerously, and falling on all fours was all he could do to avoid collapsing completely.

"What in the nine Hells do you think you're doing, drow? Get _up_ and fight!" Entreri cursed, but he soon found that he couldn't even follow his own command.

There were no visible wounds in his body, but he was ashen pale and a fine sweat covered him completely; his muscles were shaking uncontrollably and thoroughly refusing to move with their usual grace even as he tried to step forth and continue to fight.

There was nothing he hated more than this _helplessness_.

"Artemis, my friend, I really think you should step back now!"

Jarlaxle's merry voice was taut with underlying tension, and the rogue's eye darted between his friend and his enemy.

His lips curled in a wide grin in spite of the tight situation they all were in, and a low chuckle made its way out of his chest when he realized the heated, Artemis-made glare that was being glared his way as a result of his genuine smile.

His friend, right?

"Artemis, you might want to force your body to move on the _other_ direction now!" he exclaimed. "And I'd close my eyes if I were you, too."

Entreri's gray eyes widened when he saw Jarlaxle's flourish, and he scrambled the backwards the best he could.

He knew that particular wand, and, if it were for him, it would not be fired within a mile radius of his person.

But he only could cover a few feets before the rogue leader whispered the command word that made the Shadow Plane burst in a parody of pale rainbows, and that definitely obliterated the last nightwalker.

There was no _way_ it could survive after being… melted.

Jarlaxle tucked his wand away with a purse of his lips – there went one of his favorite items… he'd have to get Kimmuriel to recharge it now.

Then, gingerly, he picked his way to a scowling Artemis Entreri, who was sitting down and looking like a whole herd of rothé had just stepped over him.

"You could have used that sooner," the assassin spat.

"It was the last use; you know I'd hate to use it without reason…" the drow say, donning a winning smile and covertly assessing the deteriorated condition of the Calishite.

It looked bad.

Surely humans didn't have the healthy skin tone of a drow, but they shouldn't be that gray.

He had barely reached inside one of his pockets to produce his healing orb when a shrill shriek made him jump – would have made his hair stand on end, if he had had any.

Jerking his head, he searched for the source of the noise – and found a very wide-eyed Yria staring up into the looming figure of the _first_ nightwalker they had engaged.

The rogue dropped the orb and conjured his daggers, even as Entreri tried to get to his feet. Even Rizolvir managed to lift his head and stare over his shoulder, ruby eyes blinking frantically in an attempt to stay focused.

"Isn't that one supposed to be dead?" Jarlaxle wondered aloud, more jolted than he cared to admit.

Why wasn't that thing dead and gone? Why wasn't Yria fireballing it to oblivion? Casting anything at all?

Even as he threw the first dagger, he knew that the foe was going to attack, and there was no time to stop it.

Or so he thought.

Even before the flying knife hit the target, a blade burst from the nightwalker's chest. It ripped its way up and down, from left to right, blinding in its speed, and the darkness, already lacerated and pierced through, dissolved under their very eyes.

Jarlaxle's dagger flew by, harmless, and the mercenary locked eyes with the lavender gaze that stood behind the remnants of dissipating shadow.

Eldath nodded in acknowledgement and walked forward, reaching out a hand to steady the suddenly trembling sorceress.

"It seems that it wasn't, no," he said placidly, as if discussing the weather. "This things are resilient, I believe… It is best not to leave them for dead before they are truly gone.

"Now, how about we find some safe spot to regroup?"


	12. Falling to pieces

A/N: _This story is going to be 15 chapters long – or 14 and a short epilogue, depending on how you look at it, so we're almost there. This chapter is a respite from the action that led to this point, and a respite from the action that is coming soon. Also, I took the chance to focus on character development: this means that the chapter is slow, but our guys are all ready to get where I want them to be. Please, read and enjoy – and let me a note on your way out._

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**Falling apart**

Yria couldn't control her shaking body, and she had to admit that she'd have hit the ground a while earlier if Eldath hadn't suddenly popped out of nowhere to support her weight.

The warrior's arm around her waist was the only thing keeping her upright, yes, but that wasn't the reason she was scared.

She wasn't scared because of the abnormal reaction her body was having, and neither was she worried because of the weird way her spells had fired. She wasn't even embarrassed that she had been totally unable to react to the very distinct threat of having her head ripped off her shoulders.

No, her mind was much too busy trying to prevent a general shutdown to bother with small details.

The thing was, though, that it was not the first time her body had to cope with the drowsiness she was feeling at the moment. It had been a long time, true, but there was a time, at the beginning of the 'Great Mess', when this spent state of mind was common occurrence to the sorceress.

Back when the adventuring madness had started, her losing consciousness after displaying her magical prowess had been somewhat usual. And even through the layers of mental cobwebs, Yria could recognize the stinging pain of burning up her very soul in exchange for a little bit more power.

She knew what her rapid beating heart meant all right, and she knew why her breath hitched in her throat.

But knowing what was going on did painfully little to help her remedy the situation, and the petite sorceress just slumped back and let Eldath lower her to the ground and help her into a sitting position.

The purple eyes fixed her with a curiously concerned expression, and the lieutenant quickly checked her over.

"You're not hurt," he stated, a white eyebrow going up in amusement, "so, what's up?"

An outrageously plumed hat entered Yria's field of vision, and she tried to focus on Jarlaxle's single eye.

In all its cunning glory, it was strangely comforting.

The mercenary leader toyed with his healing orb while crouching in front of the sorceress. He'd already tended to Artemis' and Rizolvir's wounds, so though he couldn't use the contraption to cleanse the venom completely, he was fairly sure that the two of them were good to go.

He wasn't so sure about the young girl. He didn't even know what was wrong.

"Is she poisoned too?," the rogue asked, wondering just when she could have inhaled the noxious vapors.

"No," Eldath said. "Look at her and look at _them_. Obviously, it's something different."

The fighter seemed more curious than anxious when saying this, and Jarlaxle wondered if it shouldn't rub him the wrong way.

Partly, because Yria was his associate, and mostly because he knew the look all too well.

It was the look of someone who had just spotted where the trick was, and wasn't sharing.

Jarlaxle stared hard at the lieutenant, and wondered whether to call him out on what he had discovered. When was about to do so, though, Yria interrupted with a small voice.

"I'm fine, really. This is quite normal."

"Not that normal if we hadn't seen it before," said Entreri's voice, who had stood and approached the trio on slightly unsteady legs.

The sorceress gave a weak smile to the assassin, and tried to wave his concerns away.

"Ah, that's because before I cheated," she explained. "See this tacky boots here? They enhance my stamina or whatever and prevent me from reaching this pathetic state. If it weren't for them, the amount of magic I use would burn me up much more often."

"So, they are not working anymore? Run out of uses?" Jarlaxle wondered aloud, oblivious to the relief that Artemis was experiencing.

So she wore the boots because they were magical, not because she had Jarlaxle's fashion sense, the assassin was thinking.

"They work and I don't even want to know how I might be faring if I weren't wearing them," the girl explained, trying to adjust her position to be more comfortable. "And the enhancements are permanent, so no need to worry for uses. As a matter of fact, I'm not too sure why they are acting up like this."

"It is the Shadow plane," said the quiet voice of Rizolvir as the drow warrior mage joined them with a slightly haunted look on his face.

Jarlaxle looked at him as if he had grown an extra head.

"Erm, yeah, this is the Shadow plane, but…"

Rizolvir waved his hand dismissively, kneeling besides Yria with worry.

"No, I mean to say that Yria's condition is due to the fact that she is casting within the Shadow realm."

"What's that to do with anything?" the peeved sorceress in question asked.

Rizolvir himself wasn't too sure.

It was just a theory that had formed in his mind while it tried to work itself free of the poison, some old knowledge from his student days that had jumped out to him at the weirdest moment, but he was quite willing to bet that he wasn't off the mark by much.

"The Shadow plane is aligned, just like most everything else," he attempted to explain as best as he could. "It favors illusions and necromancy, and perhaps even enchantment up to a certain point, since it is an illusory state of mind. However, you tend to favor evocations. By definition, evocation is the creation of energy, culminating with the genesis of matter."

"And to do that where it's not meant to be would be extremely difficult," Yria finished, catching on to his meaning quickly.

"Indeed," the spellsword nodded. "The amount of raw magic needed to create an effect when the natural energies of the plane tend to negate it would surely increase exponentially."

"Which explains why I'm trashed."

"That would be my assumption, yes."

"This sucks," the sorceress grunted, slumping back and leaning her head against Eldath's shoulder.

Just a little bit of thinking, and her head was spinning again.

Oh, how she hated this weakness… it made her feel useless.

"Just to clarify it for strategy's sake," Entreri said pointing to Eldath, "what _you_ are telling us is that we're about to enter Shade domains; and what _your_ _sources_ told us," the assassin's stare turned to Jarlaxle, "is that this former Empire has been reawakened. Right?"

Eldath nodded, still looking thoroughly amused by the situation. The Calishite's gray gaze turned on Rizolvir.

"And you couldn't find a better moment to let us know that our one combat caster is going to be essentially useless in this whole venture?"

The spellsword's ruby gaze ignited at the harsh words – how dare anyone call Yria useless? – and Jarlaxle cringed.

"Artemis, my dear friend, what have I taught you about diplomacy? Don't you remember my painstaking lessons on how you just couldn't blurt out the first thing crossing your mind?"

For a moment, it looked like Rizolvir was going to pounce on Entreri, like Entreri was going to pounce on Jarlaxle, and like Jarlaxle was going to have one hell of a time piquing the assassin.

Then, Eldath stood and pulled the petite human up with him.

"Well, it looks like the effects of the toxin are gone now. Let's get moving; we still need to cover some ground before we're in place."

"No."

Everyone froze.

"We will find some position that might be easily defensible until the effect of magical exhaustion is over; then, we will see about moving forth."

Depending on who you asked, Rizolvir was an eccentric drow, a sensitive male or a disciplined warrior.

But always he was one to follow commands, not to bark them out.

Enserric cringed from his corner deep in the drow's mind. After all it had insisted on him taking the initiative, the former smith had to go and act _now_.

Talk about rotten timing.

"What?" Yria whirled on him, lost her balance and clung to Eldath for support while the spell of dizziness passed.

"It is obvious that you cannot go on in this manner, Yria. We must stop and rest for as long as it is necessary," the spellsword explained, as if his previous statement hadn't been clear enough.

_Oh, no, don't worry, pal. Your death sentence was clear enough. _

For the first time since she had started this new leg of her life, Yria was pissed.

She had always been small and weak and frail, she knew that much. And she had always hated it. She hated that people made assumptions and treated her differently, and she hated that her traitorous body went and gave them reasons to do so. It made her feel inept and dumb and helpless. It made her feel like she was holding everybody else back.

For a born leader such as herself, there was nothing worse than being just luggage.

"When the eight layer of the Hells melts over!," so, yeah, perhaps she overreacted. "We are not stopping until we reach Shade and sort out this mess, whatever it is. If _you_ need to rest so badly, then _you_ stay behind!"

Casters knew that words held a great deal of power. They were the core of many spells to kill and to heal, and no magic user would deny the raw potential hidden in words.

Still, Rizolvir would have never guessed how much they could hurt.

"Of course," the drow said, taking two steps back as if physically struck and dropping his eyes to the floor – as much to show respect as to hide his feelings. "Please, forgive my bold assumptions. I know I spoke out of turn; it shall not happen again."

_Ouch_. Enserric sighed, annoyed. _Great. Just great. It took me ages of prodding to get you to open up, and now we're back to square one. Gee!_

The spellsword lashed mentally out at his meddlesome weapon, not in the mood to accommodate its comments. He gathered all the strange anguish he felt at seeing her moving away with the purple-eyed lieutenant, packed it tight, and sent it inwards to Enserric's secluded spot within his mind.

_Why, it has become quite gloomy here. Are we growing mushrooms and I hadn't realized yet?_

Rizolvir closed his eyes and added the gut-wrenching anger that was mounting on his chest to his mental barrage – anger at the sword's words that had made him forget his place – and Enserric chose to withdraw and sulk in silence where it was less noticed.

_This was your slip, pal. It's quite low of you to blame me, but then again, you're drow. _

The spellsword reveled in his sword's silenced voice, even as he acknowledged that it had been his fault indeed – what had he been thinking about, talking to her like that?

He opened his eyes and crossed a look with Entreri.

"I shall take the rear?" it was both a question and a statement. After all, in any drow House, the weapons master held more rank than the smith.

The assassin gave him a curt nod, and started off after the leading pair.

Awkwardly, he patted once the drow's shoulder as he passed him.

A few meters to the side, a very perplexed Jarlaxle contemplated the whole exchange and smiled his best winning smile. There were some very interesting things going on right under his nose, and his dearest associate was in on it.

He'd better get started on the long and complicated business of prodding Artemis for information, or he was going to miss the best part of all the fun.

With resolute gliding – the fight was bound to have produced some good side effects, such as a newfound ability to move about the Shadow realm -, the mercenary drow reached the Calishite's side and spent a good while throwing furtive glances to the man.

It didn't seem to be working, as Artemis kept his glare focused onwards without so much as a blink.

Jarlaxle wondered whether the human was starting to become much too used to his presence, but then dismissed the thought. _He_ had grown too used to the assassin's antics; obviously it was the same for Entreri.

He didn't want to stop and ponder what that meant, though.

So he decided to take a bolder approach.

After throwing a furtive glance around to make sure that everyone else was minding their own business, Jarlaxle consciously invaded Entreri's personal space and put a hand to his shoulder – ready to snatch it back if it looked like he was going to lose it – and addressed the man in a more intimate version of his scheming speech.

"Why, Artemis, did you see that?" he asked, opting to talk about the exchange between Rizolvir and Yria and hoping to learn something from the man's reactions. "How illuminating a scene! I hadn't realized that our dark skinned associate harbored such feelings for our little sorceress!"

Stony silence, but Artemis deigned to glance sideways to the drow. The look told Jarlaxle in no uncertain terms that the man wasn't buying a second of his claimed ignorance.

The colorful drow chuckled and tried again.

"And what did you think of her spirited response? How unkind to her, to rebuke his preoccupation like that! The poor elf was just trying to be helpful, but it seems it only served to push her away."

Still, no reaction.

It was slightly more informative that it might have seemed, though, because Jarlaxle could surmise that Artemis knew beforehand of Rizolvir's pretenses. But it wasn't helping to solve the mystery, which only got more and more complicated: the curious dark elven mercenary itched to know how the assassin had acquired that information.

Had he cared enough about the other pair to be observant? Or was there something else?

"Ah, well, I guess that now it's clear that he's been the only one feeding such romantic ambitions," Jarlaxle wondered aloud, trying to gauge whether Artemis knew if the spellsword's feelings were reciprocated.

Said Artemis sighed, and resisted the urge to massage his temples.

Really, if Jarlaxle thought he was being subtle, then one had to wonder how he had thrived so much in Menzoberranzan. The Calishite, on his part, thought that the drow was being obnoxiously meddlesome.

Whatever Rizolvir felt was his own business, as it was Yria's business to feel something back or not. And it was their joint business to act upon those feelings, and there was no reason for anyone else to interfere.

Small correction: no reason to interfere without being asked to, he thought wryly.

And certainly, no one had asked for _Jarlaxle's_ opinion.

"If you _must_ be so godsdamned curious, then you could try to be curious about more interesting things," he said with a tired voice, not even realizing that he was detouring the question for a series of reasons that he'd be caught dead before admitting to.

Jarlaxle smiled roguishly, content to have pulled his longtime partner – and friend – into a conversation.

"Don't you find our partners to be a legitimate source of curiosity?"

"Will they betray us if their love life turns out to be barren and empty?" Artemis shrugged, signaling that he found the whole point rather moot. "Then no, I don't think it's worth it."

"Barren and empty love life? Artemis, I didn't know that you were a bard!" Jarlaxle chuckled away the murderous glare of the assassin, and quickly followed with another, harmless comment. "What does ignite that curiosity of yours then, my friend?"

Entreri didn't consider himself a snoopy person. He had a extremely strong sense of privacy, and tended to respect that in others – as long as it didn't involve his next job. He had never felt the need to pry on the life of others just for the sake of it.

But if he considered it long enough, there was one thing he found himself thinking of more often than not. One forever unknown variable thrown in his orderly life, that he sometimes would like to be able to predict or understand.

Still, the Calishite did not do curious, and certainly did not do curious about Jarlaxles, so he confessed to the next best thing.

"I'm curious to know what the Hells we're trying to do now."

Jarlaxle blinked.

"Why, I'm hurt, Aremis," he said, and surprised himself realizing that it was true. "I thought it was all perfectly clear. We're going to stop the Shadovar from using the tome."

"Yes, I know that much. What I'm trying to figure out is what we're trying to accomplish."

"Ah… Stop the Shadovar and…"

"No, Jarlaxle," Artemis sighed, exasperated but unable to get truly mad about it anymore. "I mean, why are you bothering with stopping the Shadovar? What are you winning this time?"

His words gave Jarlaxle some pause, and his visible eye widened in denial. Surely Artemis didn't believe that there was some hidden scheme going on behind the scenes?

But then again, why wouldn't he believe it?

No matter how often the rogue leader insisted in calling the human 'his dearest friend', Entreri had spent long enough in dark elven society to know that the word _abbil_ was vague at best and a notice of treason at worst.

Jarlaxle made a mental double take at that. When exactly had he stopped thinking about Entreri as his _abbil_, anyway?

The Baenre realized with shock that it had been quite a long time.

Nowadays, he thought bitterly, he only thought of the assassin as his friend.

And those terms were oh, so different, even if they were equivalent.

The truth of the matter was that even if he kept some information, even if he still liked to have his secret ways, he would not enlist Artemis blind into a convoluted power scheme of his own. Not anymore.

How ironic that the human would never believe the most sincere words he'd ever speak.

"We were looking for adventure, and adventure found us," the drow answered at length. There was no point in giving voice to what would never be willingly heard. "We all decided that it was a good chance, and we took it. That's all there is to it, Artemis, really."

"Are you trying to tell me that you're not trying to get your hands on that tome in a safe way, and to use it in your dealings with your pet Kimmuriel and the Matron bitches?"

As a matter of fact, Jarlaxle didn't even know what the tome could do beyond building him a golem. And honestly, in light of his previous experience with Illefari golems, he'd rather stay clear of them. Perhaps there were other bits of knowledge or other instructions in the ancient manuscript, things that could actually be used by his underground empire to get an extra edge, but Bregan D'aerthe's leader didn't know.

It was astounding, yes. It was even slightly scary for the paranoid drow, but he was acting just because, not knowing the full extent of the forces he was getting involved with. He was acting because they all had decided to get involved, and he was going to the lengths he was going because he simply didn't know how to do things by halves.

For once, Jarlaxle didn't have an ulterior motive, and he was strangely okay with that.

Even though he would prefer Artemis Entreri to believe his transparent intentions because he was quite sure that having a friend's trust would be a unique experience.

Alas, it was not to be, it seemed, and perhaps the drow was making too big a deal this time. Perhaps there was no ulterior motive just because the book was not worth it: Kimmuriel would have let him know if his research had turned something up, and the powerful psion had had more than enough time to analyze the nature of the tome if nothing else.

The only thing he was sure of, he wasn't trying to get the book for his own purposes and he wasn't trying to use his companions. Not this time.

"Exactly."

Artemis snorted, and turned his eyes to the front. Yria and Eldath were moving about ten feet ahead, and beyond their solid figures, he could see the first shapes of a great city lurking in the gray indistinctiveness of the Shadow Plane landscape.

"We shall see," he said, barely above a whisper.

Unaware of the conversation, Eldath was seeing another thing altogether.

He had just seen the punch line of the great joke that had been played on him and his elite squad in the smoldering chasm that separated an annihilated beholder hive from the vast plains of the Underdark, and he was finding it thoroughly amusing:

Yria Ingerd had been almost dead on her feet when he and his soldiers had found her.

She had been so far gone because of her magic and the physical injuries sustained that she'd not have been threatening to a fly, and still he had turned out to be the fly: she had spun a delicious web of deception around him, and he had been completely caught in the lie.

He could have killed the so-called Savior of Lith My'athar without breaking a sweat, and could have earned endless favor from the Valsharess instead of having to flee her service. And in the end, without the figure of the little sorceress, the Empress might have truly achieved her goal, because Mephistopheles wouldn't have been freed.

The petit sorceress had tricked him, and the course of fate had been altered because of it.

It was a grand joke, really.

Eldath directed a smirking glance to the small girl that still depended on his arm to walk, and then to the looming, swirling profile on the horizon that signaled their arrival to the city of Shade.

Well, he thought. She had done something for him, now he would do something for her.


	13. Lost in sand

A/N: _This chapter… I really, really wanted to write it. It didn't turn out as it should have – I'm not too happy about it, but I seem unable to fix it while telling the story as I want it. Would like to complain more, but then I'd spoil it for you. Insert sigh here. Please, read, enjoy and let me know what you think._

_On a different note: the amazing __JCBlade __has created a great piece of art depicting Yria! Thanks a lot! Check it out and let her know how good it is: _http:// jc-blade. deviantart. com/ art/ Yria-Ingerd-133353019 _ (remember to take out the spaces)_

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**Lost in sand**

The grains of sand hissed as they tumbled down the countless junctures. It was a gentle sound, but amidst the silence it reverberated like roaring thunder, enveloping the gloomy darkness like a cocoon of all-encompassing sound that came from everywhere, from nowhere.

It was amazing that, after all that time and all that devastation, the sand were still moving. One would expect that it would have completely swallowed the place whole, that it'd have pulled stone and steel and gold deep into its embrace and would have settled down a long time ago.

Instead, in the darkness, it was still falling and tumbling and hissing, eroding its way through what had become an empty carcass.

It was an amazing fact indeed, and appreciating it kept them from focusing on each other.

And, according to one Yria Ingerd, that was bliss.

The young sorceress scuffed the tip of her boot against the precariously tilted floor, and watched in wonder how more sand was dislodged and allowed to run freely down the sloping street.

Interesting.

Though it was arguable whether it was interesting enough to distract her from her main objective.

Probably not.

She shouldn't be standing there, she should be trying to figure out which way was East: she clearly remembered from her previous incursion into Undrentide that the wizard's tower they were now seeking was located in the eastern district.

Of course, she was referring to the original eastern district.

When the city had plummeted down from the skies for the first time, almost two thousand years back, it had spiralled madly in its descent. And the rough landing had done very little to keep it rightfully oriented, for surely the massive structure had tumbled with the collision.

Not only that: when the stupid medusa had tried to reawaken the mythal magic and to fly the decaying corpse of a city once again, she had, of course, not managed to right the wrongs produced by the fall. Yes, for a moment the ancient stone had been strung with energy, for a moment the guardians of old had been recalled to their forgotten duties, for a moment the behemoth of Undrentide had soared.

But it had been only a moment, and she had certainly not rotated the city to the proper flying position.

And besides, right afterwards the ruins had gone and plummeted once more, as if things weren't already chaotic enough in the old Netherese city.

The eastern district could be anywhere.

It could even be _downwards_, Yria pondered while looking around at the dead remnants of the deserted street. It actually was pretty stupid to be thinking in terms of East and West and even _districts_, and truly she did not know why she bothered.

Well, yes, she did.

It was because it kept her from thinking about the company.

She steadied herself against the wall and climbed a few steps up the street – the return to the Prime Material had helped her to gather her wits more quickly, but still the street was much too inclined and she had never been fond of athletics anyway. With every movement, she thought she was going to slip and just tumble her way down, down, to the bottom of the damnable desert, but, thankfully, she didn't.

She managed to reach an empty doorjamb and to secure a position against it.

The doorjamb, she realized, had been wooden at some point but was currently gone. And not eaten by age and termites, but more likely burned away.

Smiling wryly, Yria peered inside the room beyond the gaping hole and saw a broken bookcase, a few splintered remains that could be a table, some debris littering the floor the precedence of which was anyone's guess.

In a corner, scraped and damaged beyond repair and recognition, she also saw a few body parts that might have belonged to an iron netherese golem at some point in the past.

"This used to be a shop," she said, as if she were guiding a tour through the buried ruins for viewing pleasure. "Not that it is much to look at now, but when I was here for the first time the golems were still working. We shouldn't need to worry about them now, though: I'm pretty sure I cleaned up the place before."

Of course she had cleaned it up before: fat chance she would leave anything remotely valuable behind just to avoid confrontation with a couple of iron golem guardians.

Perish the thought.

Yria looked around once more, and then pointed up-street.

"So, anyway, this is the merchant quarter. As it was the northernmost part of the city, I think that if we go down, we should find the library. Through that very wall, we should find the central square… and if we go up, that should take us East to the residential area and the archwizard's tower."

The only comment she got was the sound of shifting sand when someone's feet found purchase in the corridor, and she sighed in exasperation.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"In my humble opinion, we should endeavour to make our way upwards in order to reach the tower in time. Of course, if you would wish to proceed to the library first then we must go down. I dare to advise against opening a hole in the wall to reach the central square, though: I am not confident on the structure being sound enough to withstand the assault. Please, forgive my boldness."

Yria twitched and looked over uncomfortably to her partner.

She just saw white lashes lowered over eyes that stared intently at the floor and an off-white head bowed in deference. The exact same thing she had seen the last ten times she had looked at him.

Or perhaps it had been twenty.

"Sure, let's go upward," she said, with a shudder. "Schedules and all that, right?"

"As you say."

Enserric chuckled merrily inside Rizolvir's head.

_Is this some sly tactic of yours to get her to react?_ the sword leered, if such a thing were possible. _I must say that it is working: you do have all her attention. What to do with it, I wonder, what to do with it?_

"_No tactic whatsoever, Enserric,"_ the spellsword replied with a tired mental voice. _"No tactic, no games. I just must remember my place."_

_Ah, don't be like that! You can't possibly withdraw this much just because she lashed out at you once?_

Rizolvir scoffed.

"_She did not really lash out, did she. I would barely be standing if she had _lashed out._"_

Enserric gave the very amusing mental feeling of a sword with a raised eyebrow.

_You aren't serious. Pal, how often must we go through this? She is no drow. _

"_I am."_

_And that is important, how?_

The sword's comment was met with stony silence, and with a long-suffering sigh it decided to change tactics.

_She wasn't mad at you, pal,_ the nasal voice of the sword explained, more serious than it usually sounded.

Rizolvir gave his head the barest shake, his hand going up to rest on the solid cross guard of the sentient blade.

"_She was displeased."_

_Of course she was. She doesn't like coming that close to losing. And besides, you weren't the master of tact rubbing it in like that, either. _

Rizolvir blinked, truly bewildered.

"_I was not… rubbing it in,"_ he said, tasting the foreign expression as he used it. _"I was merely concerning myself about her health."_

Enserric realized that, for the dark elf, that was probably true. If he had been being malicious, he would have been so sharp, twisted, and venomous that Yria probably wouldn't have understood the jibe.

_Concern is usually expressed, oh, I don't know, how about by saying 'hey, are you alright' or 'do you need a break'. You aren't supposed to manhandle the ladies like that, pal. Probably it's a bad habit you got from getting your kicks with the weapon rack for all those years… Poor sweet daggers! Flail, my heart goes out to you!_

Against his will, Rizolvir's lips curved upward in a soft half-smile. It truly was a sad state of affairs if he was finding amusement in being the punch line of a joke, but still.

"_What good does a mere question do?" _he wondered, and Enserric sighed.

Step by step, the sentient sword thought. This is a drow. A dense drow. Patience.

_It does enough good, pal. Now, please, do look ahead. _

The dark elf's snapped out of his gloomy thoughts to catch sight of an Yria clinging precariously to an ornate double door.

He debated whether to step forth and help her – he wanted to help her, but –

Yria felt his doubting gaze on her and twisted quickly, hoping to catch his eyes.

No such luck – he was already examining the floor by the time she got around.

She sighed, and felt the first symptoms of worry nesting comfortably in her stomach. If they had time, she would just grab him by the shoulders and fireball an answer out of him, but as it was there was nothing she could do, except let the feeling that something was awfully wrong grow in the back of her head.

"Wizard's tower," she settled for saying, by way of explanation. "Can't open the stupid door."

Rizolvir nodded imperceptibly, and took a hesitant step towards her.

"If you would deign to use my assistance, I believe I might be able to solve this particular setback."

"… What?" Yria asked, in a most intelligent way.

"I know a spell to open locks," the drow explained. "I am not very talented, but I thought I could try it on the door. From past experience, it should work with all but the most complex sealing charms."

"Sure, go ahead! Good thing you know that spell, else we would be seriously stuck.."

"I am pleased to be of help."

Yria watched as Rizolvir joined her by the door and produced a small bronze chime from his pouch, no longer than a phalanx of his index finger. She listened as he mumbled the arcane words that shaped a powered-up low level spell, and felt the heavy doors open with an ominous crack once the lock was dealt with.

And all the while, she could only think what had _happened_. Why in the Hells did he suddenly sound as if he were speaking a different language altogether? And why was she feeling so wretched about it?

She shook her head.

Don't even think about it.

Swinging the door open the rest of the way, she slipped past and into the infamous wizard's tower.

Well, into what was left of it.

Magic still buzzed strong in the structure, so it wasn't as if it had been damaged by any of the two falls. No, it wasn't so much that the tower was damaged as it was that the tower, well, wasn't.

There were still a few things, of course. A few old, tattered books on surely unimportant matters were sprawled in a corner. A small ornamental column still stood, and a rearing dragon figurine was gathering sand and dust fallen at its feet. A thousand fragments of colored glass peppered the floor, the substances the potion flasks had once held smeared on the stone and dried ages ago.

Forty feet above their heads, a massive platform of polished stone floated in place: the floor of a room which hadn't been migrated through and which still clung stubbornly to the position it had always occupied.

Everything else was swirling darkness.

Yria pulled a small fragment of black stone from one of her many belt pouches. She twirled it in her fingers and observed how it shone with a dark light that seemed to drink from the very darkness that surrounded them.

"Okay, we should be able to use this now, right?" she said, and, indeed, the Shadow stone they had captured from the Shadovar assassin responded to her prodding will by generating warm turbulences in the pitch black vacuum.

Rizolvir nodded and held out his arm for the petite sorceress to take. He knew he was close to overstepping again, but there was no other choice if they were to teleport together.

Yria's small hand held onto his wrist firmly, and he muttered a barely audible,

"I apologize."

They appeared upon the chunk of room they had seen earlier, and he felt Yria take a deep breath by his side.

"What for?" she asked, and her voice wasn't sounding exactly sympathetic at the time.

Rizolvir just blinked, and was startled out of his staring contest with his boots. His confused eyes swept up to take the sorceress' face in, and then he felt even more confused when he saw the way her left eye was about to twitch in certain annoyance.

He immediately averted his gaze, looking everywhere but at her.

"I am sorry if I have displeased you again, Mistress," he said, ignoring the barely suppressed mental chuckle that accompanied the expression.

Yria flinched and kicked a broken ceramic pot over the border of the room, and Rizolvir watched mesmerized as it spiraled down into certain doom.

"Just what in the nine Hells is wrong?" asked Yria as the temperature suddenly went up a notch.

Schedule or no schedule, that stupid drow was back to calling her 'Mistress'. Enough was enough, and she wasn't moving until she figured out what had happened to turn her perfectly good Rizolvir into some kind of mindless drow-golem, because she wanted him back.

Said drow was startled again into looking up, and her angry eyes made him take an involuntary step backwards.

"I – I do not know," he said, feeling truly lost and cursing stupid Enserric for being silent just when he actually was in dire need of some pointers.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" the fiery sorceress threw her arms up in the air and started pacing in the limited space the un-shifted room afforded. "What's with all this 'sorry this' 'forgive me that' all of a sudden?"

"I am merely trying to remember my place - " Rizolvir tried to explain, following the young girl with his eyes and wondering just where had he gone so obviously wrong.

"Your place was with me… ah, with _us_, not an arm's length away! Everything was going perfectly fine, so why the sudden change?"

"But," the drow, confused and startled once more, shifted his eyes to her face, trying to understand, "but, you _were_ displeased at my behavior. I truly do not understand. I do not seem to be able to grasp what you want me to be," he added, remorsefully.

Yria blinked and stared fixedly at him, all the fight flying off the metaphorical window as her mind put two and two together. .

Rizolvir blinked and stared back, until he realized what he was doing.

"This is a joke," the sorceress said, sighing and running a hand through her wild mane. "This can't be about… about that thing earlier," she elaborated, gesticulating vaguely with her free hand to indicate the embarrassing scene she was talking about.

She _might_ have told him to shove it where the sun didn't shine, but she hadn't been really _displeased_.

Embarrassed, yes. Self-conscious, yes. But, Hells, his worry had been kind of cute.

Which of course had embarrassed her even more and had made her even more irritable.

But still, it was just _one_ barely civil answer! There was no reason to behave as if she had fireballed him for his efforts! What kind of person reacted so badly to an out-of-line comment?

Yria froze.

A black-skinned, white-haired kind of person.

Gods above and below, he was a drow – a drow!

A drow who had showed stalwart determination about treating her like an honored female since moment one… well, no, moment one was friendly enough, but since moment _two_.

And right when he was getting over that whole male inbuilt protocol, she had just snapped at him.

Way to go, Yria.

She must have hurt him – Hells, he was probably _expecting_ her to fireball him for his efforts!

She coughed to clear her throat. Her face was burning red, she could feel it alright, and she wanted to crawl away and hide. Or even better yet: to make as if this conversation had never taken place and plunge forward. After all, she really, really sucked at talking about feelings.

Mostly when the feelings involved were ones she didn't particularly want to explore.

But it was a conversation that needed to be seen through to the end. Not just for him, but because she was feeling all kinds of funny due to his recent distance, and that would never do.

"Okay," she started. "Okay, so I was a bit rude and hurt your feelings. Sorry about that. Still, you completely blew it out of proportion."

"Of course," Rizolvir nodded, trying to process the fact that Yria seemed to have apologized to him. "I did; I am sorry as well. It shall not happen again -"

"No, no, no no!" Yria waved her hands dismissively and interrupted him. "It's perfectly fine that it happens again and you needn't apologize! They're your feelings and you shouldn't let people trample over them as if they weren't important!" she finished, pointing an accusing finger at him as a proud teacher who had just made a point.

Rizolvir arched an eyebrow, trying to keep up with her line of reasoning.

"But they are not important"

"Of course they are." Deadpan.

"Not when compared to," and he bit his tongue, but saw out of the corner of his eye that the damage was done.

A small spark flew off Yria's hair.

"Not when compared to those of a female? Please, give me a break!" She huffed, trying to calm down, and collapsed on top of a well-placed short ornamental column.

She caught the look of alarm a split second too late.

Of course, there was a reason for some particular bits and pieces of the wizard's tower not to have been stolen along with everything else: there were some nasty traps the magical nature of which made it impossibly difficult to dismantle, and there were spells which couldn't be easily overridden if not for a remarkably more powerful mage.

Must be complicated to come across a mage more powerful than the archwizard of the Netherese empire. The one who tried to merge with the Weave and become magic personified and all that.

So of course the bits and pieces where those traps were placed would be better left alone by the planar thieves.

Bits and pieces like the small decorative columns that seemed to be a constant on the Material remains of the tower, and traps like the one she was about to trigger with her butt.

Of all the sad, pathetic ways to die.

Yria closed her eyes, but instead of seeing black, her eyelids were illuminated by the purest white light. It was so brilliant that she thought her eyeballs were going to be burned out of her sockets, and she immediately gained a monstrous headache, in spite of the short duration of the flash.

Then, though the air had been forced out of her lungs, the sorceress remarked that she was still very much breathing.

A weight lifted off her chest, and she dared to crack one eye open.

Her previous blush returned tenfold when she realized that the weight had been Rizolvir. The dark elf was propped up in one elbow, still encasing her against the floor and using his own body as a shield. His skin, normally coal black, was looking strangely ashen and his sensitive eyes blinked furiously trying to clear away the dancing spots produced by the lighting ball that had exploded right over their heads.

Feeling her wide eyes on him, the drow quickly sat up, giving her a small breathing space.

"I am sorry," he said with a slightly sheepish look.

Yria frowned.

"If you apologize once more about touching me, I'm going to fireball you."

Because attacking him was easier than admitting that, damn it, it hurt.

"No, not about that," Rizolvir shook his head, still looking insecure and a bit lost. "About this. I might have shoved too hard."

He helped the small girl to sit up as well and reached up his hand, slowly enough for her to swat it away if she so desired, to touch ever so softly the back of her head.

"Ouch! Ouch, ouch, ouch!" which drew her attention to the relatively big lump that was starting to grow there.

The elf withdrew his hand and examined his fingertips with a frown, nodding to himself with satisfaction when he didn't find anything.

"It is not bleeding. It should heal shortly."

"Yeah, well, it's not a big deal," she said, with a small shrug. "Thanks for that. Need to take more care though; you could have gotten hurt and all."

"It is of no consequence."

Headache and embarrassment and weird, fluttering feelings forgotten, the fiery girl turned her temper on her companion once more.

"Wrong! You got it wrong again! It _is_ important! That stupid gender thing is getting ridiculous! My safety isn't more important than yours!"

Rizolvir looked the flushed Yria in the eye, and hoped to have gotten it right that time.

"But it is more important to me." When her outraged face changed to confusion, he explained on. "It goes beyond my race's etiquette and customs. I want to do this; you are important."

"Oh," was all Yria could say. She thought that it wasn't the kind of confession that could make it into a bard's book, and then it dawned on her that it actually was a confession. Of sorts. "_Oh_."

A somewhat uncomfortable silence ensued.

The wizard's tower was once again shrouded in darkness, and it encroached in on them, slowly but surely. They were just there, sitting on the floor, much too close for comfort, and Yria's brain seemed to refuse to come up with anything.

A detached part of her thought, amused, that only a dark elf could be so matter of fact when saying such things. And only a dark elf could keep such a straight face afterwards, as if expecting nothing.

Probably he didn't expect anything to come out of the conversation, too. He was just stating a fact.

But it wasn't fair. She couldn't just act as if he had just commented the weather.

She couldn't very well say any inspired stuff in turn, either. The sole idea turned her tongue to stone. Not even telling herself that, if she didn't speak up soon, things would go back to the way they were could she coax herself into forming coherent words.

And things would, because he was not going to bring the topic up again, Yria just knew it.

That was something she didn't want to happen. She wanted… she wanted –

She wanted that her blush would go away for one. Her face felt on fire and it was mortifying.

Though the loaded silence that stretched on and his steady eyes fixed on hers were even more mortifying.

She noticed that his ruby eyes were soft, open and accepting. It was a look reserved only for her, Yria understood that much.

And suddenly, she also understood what else lurked in those eyes, and what should happen to break the impossibly tense situation.

What she actually wanted to happen, if she allowed herself to think about it.

But he would never move a muscle.

She sighed.

"Must I always do all the work?"

And so, she kissed him.

…

It would probably go down to history as the worst kiss ever.

They were much too close, and she closed the distance too fast, and there were teeth involved where none should have been, and hands that didn't know what to do with themselves, and lips that didn't know how to comply nor how to pry, and elbows got in the way and foreheads bumped painfully and bodies overbalanced and tried their best not to flail about too much. It was much too chaotic, too rushed, too inexperienced; there was too much innocence and too much fear involved.

...

It was perfect.

o O o

A small patrol of Shadovar scurried past their hiding place, not able to feel their presence: they still thought that the group, and the book, was somewhere in the vicinity of Beregost and the tower was guarded only by a token number of operatives.

Which was just as well, because if the Shades hadn't been so few or so distracted, they would have heard it.

Eldath sneezed, loudly, and Artemis sent him a murderous glare.

"I still don't understand why we had to take the drow with _us_," he mumbled to Jarlaxle.

The rogue chuckled and decided not to point out that lately Artemis seemed to forget that Rizolvir and himself were, in fact, also drow.

"Because he's good at finding his way?" he suggested.

Entreri grumbled, knowing that he couldn't deny that particular fact. Eldath had guided them through the shadow twin of Undrentide and had taken them to their destination: a hulking tower of solid stone amid the translucent reflection.

But it didn't have to mean that he was happy with the arrangement either.

"We could have gone through the Material."

"Yria knows her way through Undrentide better than us; she's been there before," countered Jarlaxle, ready to embark into an argument just for the shake of it. "And besides, you wouldn't be so mean as to leave that poor girl in the Shadow Plane? She needed to recover."

Entreri turned his glare from Eldath to Jarlaxle, and then back to Eldath.

"He's going to get us discovered and ambushed if he doesn't learn to keep quiet."

Bregan D'aerthe's lieutenant smirked at the assassin, and rubbed his nose with an amused twinkle in his purple eyes.

"Don't worry _abbil_, they didn't hear it and I'm sure this will not happen again! It must have been… what do you humans say? Someone was thinking about me."


	14. The makings of history

A/N: _I could spend the next few hundred words apologizing and giving excuses, but you guys deserve better than that. Let's just say that it was high time I gave you the end of the Greatest Prize and move on. Please, look forward to the epilogue - update to be expected next monday. Please, read and enjoy. I would be grateful for your comments, so feel free to press the happy button down below. And now, let us present... the chapter! _

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**The makings of history**

Quardou gazed about the colorless, empty chamber. The twelve massive stone pillars supporting the high vaulted ceiling were carefully inscribed in perfect geometric shapes, each of them covered with neat handwriting that listed words of power in a language long forgotten. The arcane symbols spiraled on and on across the polished floor, glowing softly with remnants of whispered sorcery. It was the greatest merger of ancient magics and the modern results of two millennia worth of revengeful investigation, something not witnessed, not even dreamed of before across the planes of existence.

And yet, Quardou was not happy.

The very heart of the room, the one piece of knowledge that would become the very soul of his ambitious project, it was… empty.

Missing.

Stolen from his very grasp and held far from its rightful place by nothing more than a bunch of fools.

It made his ichory black blood boil.

He could keep the spell prepared, waiting for that final piece of the puzzle, for as long as he needed as long as he had underlings to keep chanting the hymns and apprentices to keep retracing the latent runes. And he had waited long for the moment to come – the city of Shade had waited for two thousand long years.

What did it matter a little more?

With his resources, sooner or later he was bound to find whatever dimensional pocket the Iltkazar was hidden in and then his plans would just carry on.

But deep down, and therein lay the problem, he couldn't wait any longer. He was ambitious, and every time his commander in chief, Ilitmut, reported his inability to find the worms that dared to oppose him anywhere near Greenest he became just a little more impatient. Every time his head of divinations, Malkith, reported that their attempts to pinpoint the tome had been foiled and that the task had just become all the more complex, he became just a tad more furious.

Perhaps his genius was enough to find a way around the dimensional rip that would plunge his city back to the Prime, or perhaps the hundreds of golems that awaited like a sea of steel for activation could be made powerful enough with just his nearly unlimited knowledge. Perhaps there was a way around the tome to achieve his goals. The truth was, though, that he had gotten a glimpse of the possibilities and would not settle for anything less.

He would not settle for anything short of the best, as his deepening frown and glare confirmed to Commander Ilitmut when he reported, once again, that the quarry had left its last known location and his select team of assassins could not find them.

The price for disappointing High Wizard Quardou was steep, as Ilitmut knew well, and for that very reason he had devoted only the best to the most important task: his men had chased the arcanist's ambitions along dusty roads and Underdark tunnels, across dark elven fortresses and human abodes, and had scoured all places above and below the ground to be forever eluded by just a bit of luck, just a split instant, just a single step ahead.

His forces struck, swiftly and surely, wherever the wizards told him to.

He was not to be blamed, then, when the diviners were incapable of giving him a location, however approximate, of the target.

And he was trying to get Quardou to understand this when he saw a skinny, nervous aide hurrying across the chamber, his steps nearly drowned out by the sound of chanting coming from the darkened corners.

'Milord,' the aide whispered with a clear baritone voice, 'Milord, Master Malkith has found it.'

There was, of course, no question as to what "it" was.

There was, however, the incognita of why an apprentice had been sent when old Malkith would love nothing more than to garner the recognition himself.

A few more whispered, hurried words and Ilitmut's eyes widened in understanding and disbelief: it was…

Right there.

Right there, in Undrentide, just across the veil between the planes.

He started mentally going over whatever was left of the wretched city as soon as he saw the slow smile blooming across Quardou's features.

And then, the room faded to white.

o O o

In the aftermath of the fierce battle, Jarlaxle turned the book over in his hands, carefully avoiding the midday Anauroch sun that fell like an axe upon the abandoned Beddin camp where they had sought refuge. He was looking at it with new eyes and wondering what kind of fanatics the Shadovar were. They had faced death just too happily, and all because of a chance, however small it might have been, to acquire the old tome.

The leather bound journal wasn't all that incredibly impressive, and yet it had sent them out in quite the adventure – chased across the planes by the descendants of a legendary human empire and forced to strike at the serpent's head to gain the upper hand.

He would be lying if he didn't admit that it had been plenty of fun, though, and he was quite sure that now that the threat had been neutralized he could find plenty of profit as well – surely the people to whom the book was supposed to have been handed over would pay them handsomely for their faultless Good Delivering?

The drow smiled, and his thoughts must have shown in his face because he heard the very distinct and exasperated sigh of Entreri and the quite creepy and dark chuckle of Eldath.

Bregan D'aerthe's lieutenant walked slowly up to him, looking much too nonchalant for his act, and asked curiously:

"So what do you plan on doing now with the book, Jarlaxle?"

The rogue blinked. It was not an innocent question, and Jarlaxle was aware of that. It pointed out clearly who was the group's thinking brain and who took the decisions. And it reminded him a lot of a recent conversation he had had with Artemis.

Jarlaxle was not a believer in coincidence.

"Well, now we will take the book to its original destination and finish the job as per agreed on the contract, of course," he said, navigating his way around the question as best as he could.

Eldath's smile grew slightly, and he shook his head, and Jarlaxle realized that it wasn't that Bregan D'aerthe hadn't had time to uncover more facts about the thrice-damned book. He realized that the full information regarding his newest mission –or his newest pastime, as Kimmuriel would surely say- had been purposely withhold.

The fact that the Baenre was caught off guard by the revelation was a testament to how many subtle changes the surface was bringing about in him.

"The original destination is the Harpers' clutches," the purple-eyed drow informed conversationally. "Are you truly willing to relinquish that power to them?"

Jarlaxle was familiar with the Harpers. They were a pretty big organization who everybody had heard about but nobody could really define – sometimes champions of justice, sometimes a bunch of swindlers and tricksters, sometimes the paladins and sometimes the rebels, the Harpers moved around the gray area between the extremes and surrounded themselves in as much cloak-and-dagger paraphernalia as they possibly could in order to keep everyone on their toes.

The drow himself considered the Harpers an organization akin to Bregan D'aerthe, when he was in a generous mood, but that didn't mean that he should go offering help – quite the contrary! They were the competition!

Then again, it did mean that the organization's coffers should be full, and, honestly, he didn't care much for what use the Harpers had in stock for Illefari golems. If the price was right, then the book should go to the Harpers or to whoever it was, he decided.

But then his happy bubble of simple business was burst open.

"You don't even know what you're holding, do you?" Eldath wondered aloud with a wicked grin that meant nothing good was to come.

Jarlaxle tensed and felt his defenses come up as one. It seemed that Eldath was finally going to play his hand and suddenly it didn't seem that fun anymore.

"Why, yes: I recall quite distinctly that it is a book on Illefari golems," he said slowly, careful not to show his true thoughts.

"There is quite a lot of information about golems in there, yes," the lieutenant nodded with a condescending smirk aimed at the careful façade that Jarlaxle would never allow to waver. "But it is so much more than that, as well. Bregan D'aerthe's leader decided against informing you when he discovered it just before reporting back to you, because he feared your judgment might be lost once your attention was grabbed. However, I truly believe that if someone can take advantage of this, then that someone is you."

Jarlaxle barely flinched at the reference to the Crystal Shard Issue, and managed to keep a straight face when Eldath bestowed upon Kimmuriel the title of "leader" of _his_ mercenary band. Considering it quite the accomplishment, the bald drow just arched a delicate eyebrow, inviting the other to continue.

"What you are holding in your arms, Jarlaxle, is nothing but the Iltkazar: a legendary tome, believed by many to be just the stuff of legends, wherein the entire knowledge of an empire is contained. There is about all you'd ever dream to know about golems, yes. But also about endless rituals today forgotten, about the basis where modern magics were built and about the order of the universe" Eldath's purple gaze twinkled in mischief as he revealed the truth of the unimpressive book they had been traveling with all along. "And of course, if it says how something is built, it also contains the complete understanding of how it works, hmm?"

Jarlaxle blinked. Was he understanding correctly? Did his ringed hands hold the key to so much... power? What could be done with the journal was not only build a unstoppable army, then. It could deploy it anywhere. It could traipse along the domains of the gods without needing an invitation card. Hells, could probably build him his own domain if it was investigated by a competent enough team.

And the dark elf had such competent fellows at his disposal, did he not.

Okay, perhaps, just perhaps, he could see why Kimmuriel hadn't wanted to tell him about the item in the first place.

Which made him wonder, why was Eldath telling him now?

"Most interesting facts," he said aloud. "And just what would you have me do about them?" As he spoke, without noticing it, he held the leader-bound book to his chest a bit more closely. As if the already dead and disintegrated Shades were going to jump him in a stealing spree.

Eldath, of course, noticed - along with Entreri, of course - and laughed.

"Oh, I don't know. Start by moving your headquarters out of the Clawrift and into a demiplane of your own, perhaps. Expand business to other drow cities, with the ability to move from one of your operational centers to the next in no time and without effort. Establish an associated guild in the surface, if you must: if the bulk of your forces remain in the Underdark, and the rotations are short, I believe the risk of upheaval is minimal compared to the profit. Think big, Jarlaxle..." A rather devilish grin lighted up the lieutenant's ebony features. "I know you can do that."

Jarlaxle could.

He could almost see the possibilities multiplying themselves in an exponential way.

Unfortunately, he could also hear the exponentially huge sigh abandoning Entreri's lips.

"_I knew it_," he guessed the silent words that abandoned the Calishite's lips as he sheathed his blades and turned his back on the other two.

The drow rogue felt the urge to pull his non-existent hair.

During all his partnership with Entreri, he had endeavored to look like an infallible fellow. Like someone who could never be caught off guard, who had contingencies planned to the latest detail... and, go figure, he had succeeded.

Oh, it was true that he was very well prepared to face the world, that his mind was prodigious - only in a different way from Kimmuriel's - and that it was damn hard to catch him unprepared.

But it happened.

The forgotten Baenre was not perfect. He just made everyone else believe he was, because, honestly, when you knew you could not outsmart someone, you did not even try.

So, it was a defense mechanism.

For the most part, it worked.

But.

But then, when he actually had realized that he trusted the human, and when he actually was innocent of plotting and lying, Artemis would not believe it. The assassin had bought Jarlaxle's façade and there was no convincing him that, in this instance, the born leader had been led around in the blind.

Jarlaxle almost wanted to laugh, even while he tried to figure out a way to fix up the mess.

"I can get an idea or two," he said, buying time while he turned the pages over with feigned leisure.

Artemis Entreri, however, did not wait around to hear the solution the drow came up with.

No, the human was more than fed up - he had had enough of being lied to, manipulated, plunged into deadly danger without his consent. He was tired of following in the blind the brilliant shooting star which was Jarlaxle, and he reckoned that if he stood in its wake a moment longer, the comet's tail was going to burn him into nothingness.

So, shoulders slumped in sudden fatigue, he just turned around and walked to the small door that led to their makeshift recovery camp.

As he approached Rizolvir and Yria he must have sported a thunderous look in his face, going by the once-over the pair gave him. The former smith arched an eyebrow in questioning, ever so discreet, but the petite sorceress sat up a little straighter from her position and gestured for the potion that was being held to her lips to get off from her face.

"So, what gives?" she asked as soon as the drow lowered the bottle and secured her with an arm around the shoulders.

Entreri simply glared. He did not want to talk about it.

He wasn't even sure what "it" was.

Sure, there was the betrayal and the lies and the fact that they all had been used, _again_. But, honestly, he should be used by now to all that. It was not as if Jarlaxle had ever behaved differently - and he had known the drow mercenary for a long time already.

"You look like someone pissed on your morning coffee," Yria, ever helpful, elaborated in the hopes of prompting him to speak.

Entreri and Rizolvir both grimaced at the mental image, and the assassin contemplated turning on his heel yet again.

But, no. Instead, he gritted his teeth and forced some politeness out.

"How are you two faring?" asking the question was like pulling his own molars out, but it helped to route the conversation.

"I am well," the spellsword replied softly.

And indeed, he looked well - in spite of all the black ichors covering him up and the brand new scruffs to his armor and his disheveled state, the drow looked more steady and even healthy than he had when the group had separated their ways.

One could only surmise that alone time on the Prime had changed the pair's situation, and Artemis thought for a moment that he should congratulate Rizolvir on achieving an illusory position within his imaginary House.

Then, he shook his head and crouched down, busying himself with checking a bandage on Yria's arm and yelling loudly, in his mind, that he had not thought of such a thing.

The bandage, of course, was perfect. The wound had been tended to by Rizolvir for his most honored female, and nothing short of faultless would do. Still, the drow let the human pull on the gauze and adjust this and that.

It was an insult to his abilities, but Artemis looked like he needed a break and the drow found himself curiously inclined towards cutting him whatever slack he might need.

They made a good team, Artemis and he, and in any case the human was not interested in taking his Miss… his Yria away, so there was no harm done.

The Calishite nodded to himself when he was satisfied he had fumbled enough with the apposite, and then noted something weird.

Yria had not answered him.

He looked up, half curious in spite of himself, and found plain brown eyes that had seen way too much looking at him - or into him - with too much intelligence shining in them.

"What did you talk about, over there?" Yria asked, nodding to where Jarlaxle and Eldath were still standing in the outside.

The assassin swallowed a curse, because in his own viewpoint it was none of her business... But then again, surely it was.

Both Yria and Rizolvir had risked their necks just as he had, and had been equally duped.

Of course, knowing them, specially knowing Yria, she would have come anyway, if not faster, had she but known of the real powers of the book, but...

"Apparently we had a famous piece of paper with us all along," Entreri found himself saying, with a bitter tone.

The look the couple exchanged was not lost on the Calishite, and when Yria prompted him to explain more with a little, " oh?", he could just shrug and explain.

"What the... ?" The small sorceress could not believe her hears when he was done - succinctly done. Even Rizolvir was tapping an impatient rhythm against his thigh with his fingertips, as if trying to recalculate the scope of their "little adventure".

Entreri shrugged for what felt like the umpteenth time and stood up. And he was going to start spewing his non-flattering thoughts on Jarlaxle when said elf appeared, followed by a darkly smiling Eldath.

The assassin felt... floored. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, he had hoped... But the smug look on Eldath's face said enough. The damned drow was pleased - and nothing could please a dark elf more than becoming more powerful.

"I figure" Jarlaxle said when his eyes found the assassin's, "that you will refuse to believe my claim of innocence, right?"

"I fail to see how you could _not_ be innocent," Entreri spat, forgetting for a moment the rest of his companions. "You just found _another_ employer to pay you for finding a treasure _you_ wanted to find anyway."

The drow rogue flinched.

"I did not..." he took a deep breath, fortifying himself, and then plunged on. "I would want you to believe me this once when I say that you're my friend and that I would never again use or manipulate you without your consent."

Artemis barked a mirthless chuckle.

"And just how is this one time different from all the others, Jarlaxle? From the time you offered me an equal partnership in Menzoberranzan? The one you took me to your blasted city 'while I healed'? The one where you helped me deal with my rival? The one you took over old Basadoni for me?" The assassin's voice became louder with each proclamation, until suddenly he lost his momentum and looked tired. Tired and cold and deadly. "I don't even know why I bother tallying it up for you. It must be carefully detailed already in your business logs, no?"

Jarlaxle turned the worn leather cover in his hands and stayed silent. When he looked up again his visible eye shone with the conviction of one who is sure to have made the right decision.

"The first instances are detailed, yes," he said calmly. "The rest I did as your friend - for you cannot deny that you got over Do'Urden, and that your guild would have been powerful if," here, he showed some discomfort, "if we had not ran in a hurry at the last moment."

"And whose fault was that?" Artemis pressed, confused at not having seen an angry or at least a defensive mercenary.

"Mine," Jarlaxle said, as serious as he ever got. "But that does not mean that I must always fail in the same manner, and I shall prove so", the elf breathed in deeply, and then tossed the Iltkazar carelessly to the air, picking it up again with a graceful movement of his wrist. "Tell me, my friend, what will it take to convince you that I was not seeking out this powerful item on my hands?"

The assassin saw the challenge in the rogue's eyes, and he refused to back down no matter what.

"Let's start by not keeping and using the powerful item," he all but growled, throwing the stakes as high as they'd go on the first round.

"I can't hand it over to the Harpers, though. There are too many variables involved, since we can't even guess what they want the tome for, and I won't, in good conscience, take the risk to unleash something of this power to who might turn out to be our enemy on the long run…"

Entreri just snorted bitterly, interrupting him.

"Of course, for the greater good! You'll sacrifice yourself and keep it in good…"

The words died abruptly on the assassin's throat.

Jarlaxle had tossed the book again – and, with his other hand, he had flicked a slim, green tipped cedar wand upwards while it gyrated in the air.

A liquid ball the size of an apple shot forth and enveloped the Iltkazar in a wet embrace, and then it was falling down and hitting the ground with an undignified flopping sound.

The acid blob ate through the old, crisp pages of the tome as a hungry dragon tore into a rothè's flesh, and for a few moments the sizzling and frizzing was all the assassin could hear. He did not notice Rizolvir's alarmed gasp, or Yria's outraged cry at Jarlaxle destroying such an historic, _valuable_ item. Not even Eldath's amused laughter when it boomed in the small room.

He had eyes only for the tome turned paper turned smudges… Gone.

And Jarlaxle simply stood there, less than two feet away, contemplating the destruction of the stuff of legends without moving a single muscle to stop it.

"What…?" the assassin tried, finding all his eloquence gone.

The mercenary leader shrugged, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly with the motion, and then pocketed the wand as casually as if it hadn't just destroyed a two-thousand-year-old book full of knowledge.

"I can't give it to the Harpers, as I was saying," he explained, "and I can't just drop it here and wait for the next wave of crazy Shadovar to come and emulate the late Arch Wizard. So, there. No one's doing the safekeeping, and we have saved the day."

Garnet eyes locked with gray, and the assassin noted the tight expression the dark elf wore – tense, yes, but there was no regret. In fact, there was just… Jarlaxle.

For the first time in long years, perhaps for the first time in his life, Artemis Entreri felt… humbled.

In an instant, he had just realized a lot of things. Things that he knew, but had been denying. For example, he knew Jarlaxle. Beyond his masks and the many faces he liked to show, he had just realized that he could look into that garnet eye and understand _who_ it was looking back at him.

The damned little bastard mattered, too. That was the sole reason he got so upset, that was why his temper flew out the window so often. Jarlaxle mattered to him, as a steadfast ally and a competent professional, and also as someone who understood his moods and his reasons and knew when to stand beside him and when to leave him the hells alone. As… his friend?

And he mattered to the damned little bastard. And he felt like it was too much enlightenment in one go, and it was a place where he was not ready to go and…

"You have just ruined our Good Delivering plan," he found himself saying, gruffly, dryly.

It was as close as he could come to making a peace offering. To apologizing, perhaps.

Jarlaxle's visible eye twinkled then, taking the short statement for what it was, and his lips parted in a broad white grin. He took off his hat and brandished it in a flourish, shifting back into the annoying fellow persona he loved oh so much.

"Worry not, Artemis! We shall return to Bandit Killing, as it was indeed the most profitable of our ventures! And since our planning abilities are unmatched, we shall outwit all the outlaws in this fair land and become rich in the process!"

Entreri was saved from having to articulate a reply, though, as Eldath chose that moment to cut in, his face still smiling.

"My, my! I see now why the great Jarlaxle is admired and sorely missed in his home city," and said Jarlaxle fought to keep a frown off his face, for he was not sure just how much irony was behind those words.

It turned out to be… none.

"You are wise and a worthy leader, in fact" Eldath elaborated, as he slipped off the iron ring that served to plane shift. "I will be much honored to work with you again in the future."

With a small bow of the head, the lieutenant pressed the ring to the mercenary's hand and turned towards Yria, who was standing, mouth slightly agape, in a corner besides Rizolvir while the drama unfolded.

She was probably much too deep in shock over the loss of the Iltkazar to register his words, but Eldath did not let his behavior suffer for lack of public. He grasped the sorceress' unresisting hand and held it for a moment – for the moment where it was safe to hold it without having his own appendage cut of – and shot her his most winning smile.

"Yria, a pleasure, like always. This short time together has been most… enlightening. I don't consider my debt to you paid yet, so do take care until next time, yes?"

"Ah… yes, sure" dark brown eyes were glued to the floor, where incriminating splotches of acid were all that was left of something she would have liked to get her hands on. "See you around."

Eldath smirked and reached to his neck, his long fingers threading through a chain of reddish gold –

"Kyorl!" Rizolvir snapped, and, as if he had been expecting it all along, Eldath did just so. Turning his head to the side just enough to look at the other drow out of the corner of one eye, he waited.

"Dos fris udossa ul'naus ulu l'che'el lu'dos zhaunau vel'bol zhahus ulu sha'nalt. Ele xunus dos belbau ilta phor? Vel'bol ph'dos galla ulu xun?"

The purple-eyed warrior grinned widely. It had been so predictable…

Yes, indeed he had known that as soon as the two of them were together and alone they were bound to come to some kind of agreement over their unspoken urges. But that did not mean that he was giving up, did it? In his book, it was only a convenient way to pay Yria back for lying to him – and inadvertently guiding him to freedom in the process. As for what was he trying to accomplish with this? Well, it was quite obvious, wasn't it?

"Usstan inbal nau kl'ae whol vassnta, abbil."

No, he had no use for innocence.

But, and that went implied, he had all the time in the world. He was drow. And he could wait.

And with that parting shot, he tugged on the chain around his neck, breaking it. The item released an undulating wave of power and simply spirited him back to his leader, to Kimmuriel, to report all his findings and impressions.

As the lieutenant faded into nothingness, there was an amused, dark smile curling his lips.

Until next time, it seemed to say.

* * *

_(*) I think that it can be easily figured out from the conversation, but just in case here's what the dialogue in drow means:_

_"Wait!"_

_"You sent us together to the Prime and you knew what was to happen. Why did you give her up? What are you trying to accomplish?"_

_"I have no use for innocence, my friend."_

_Source: drow translator provided by the Chosen of Eilistraee webpage._


	15. Time of change

**Time of change**

Gazing upon the quiet, unassuming streets of the middle-sized town of Phlan, it was almost hard to believe that only two days ago a battle of unheard-of dimensions had taken place.

Well, probably huge battles and wars and turn-over points were reached across Faerun all the time, now that he thought about it. Perhaps he should amend his sentence: it was hard to believe that _he_ had been fighting for his life just two days prior.

Yes, that sounded better.

Jarlaxle tipped his great hat to protect his eyes from the slanted rays of a late evening's sun and leant against the stone wall of the local inn where they were staying, smiling widely at some amusing detail only he could understand - and drawing curious glances from the scant few pedestrians in the process.

The drow rogue did not care. He never did. And this time, he had reasons to smile: after all, the fact that the flow of magic had been saved by Artemis Entreri, the best assassin of the Realms, Yria Ingerd, the savior-destroyer of Waterdeep, and two very much un-goodly drow was amusing as all the hells.

He craned his neck around, taking in the views: a wide road of packed dirt with two story buildings on both sides and countless alleys sprawling forth, creeping towards the stone walls that protected the city and separated it from Old Phlan, the ruined and infested ancestor of the blooming trading spot. No matter where he looked, he saw the toils of a most mundane life: women and kids carrying water to their homes to drink and wash and cook, men coming back dirty and somber from the fields right beyond the gates, families closing up shop for the day.

Everything was normal and unsavory.

And it was ironic that it was like that because of them, wasn't it.

Otherwise, by this point, the Shadovar would have gotten their hands on the book, performed their little ritual, and right about now magic would be crashing all around Toril. And then, there'd be a floating city some couple hundred miles to the west, and Phlan might as well be one of the first places to fall to the ambitions of the once-humans.

Jarlaxle smirked and gently slid his finger along one of the golden loops that adorned his pointy ears.

And to think that his protecting his trinkets would have such a huge effect.

But his musings got interrupted at that point: two feet to his left, the inn's heavy door opened and out came Artemis Entreri.

The Calishite had cleaned up and changed clothes after taking a light nap, but no one would be able to tell: he looked exactly the same. All of the man's clothes were functional, non-descript. As if specially designed to help their wearer to blend with the shadows that grew tall in the twilight.

Jarlaxle had to grin at that. With eyes such as Entreri's, you just could not be unnoticed. They were like a town crier asking everyone to be careful and mind their business, as was evident when two goons who had been loitering around and discreetly watching how Jarlaxle relaxed decided to move it as soon as the assassin stepped out.

Entreri spared a glance to the two one-eared would-be assaulters, held a snort barely in check - though it would have been unnoticeable to anyone who did not know him as much as Jarlaxle did - and moved to the drow's other side, leaning against the wall in turn.

For a long moment, the two of them shared a companionable silence and Jarlaxle thought that magic and the peasant's way of life had not been the only salvaged things.

Their renewed partnership had been the most important prize out of the whole venture, and that was even without stopping to consider what it was slowly, falteringly, cautiously, evolving into. Because neither Jarlaxle nor Entreri had much experience with open trust and both were clearly dumbfounded when treating concepts such as equality - real equality - and, let's not forget, friendship.

But now they had both acknowledged that they were getting there. It was a new adventure, and they were both in it. Together.

The price to pay had _only_ been a priceless book that would have turned them in something nearly equal to demigods - Jarlaxle almost flinched. And he could not forget the day-long tantrum Yria had thrown because the book had been destroyed, could he?

Still, it was worth it.

And the curious thing of it all, the one that left the drow mercenary nearly agape, was that... well, hells, he meant it.

Lost as he was in such a thought, he was startled when his long-time partner cleared his throat.

"So," Artemis said, "what are the plans on leaving this Gods-forsaken town?"

As far as communication went, the Calishite still had a long way to go.

But the dark elf knew him well, and understood that there was no malice behind the question. More like, it was a token to mean that, since he had giving up manipulating, _now_ he could choose freely what to do.

Totally contradictory, and total Entreri.

"Well," Jarlaxle shrugged, "I checked out the bill boards while you rested. There is Old Phlan, where monsters and treasure are said to abound."

"Or more likely, no one has entered that decrepit ruin of a city in ages and the townsfolk need to do some cleaning," Artemis remarked dryly, and his friend tipped his hat with a small laugh.

"That, too."

The Calishite allowed the corner of his lips to curl up a small fraction, in his own version of a smile. He had checked the boards as well before coming out, and the announcements about the walled labyrinth of moldy stone seemed to him about as appealing as watching the grass grow.

Frankly put, nothing worth it could be still there, when the ruins were so close to the newly built, flourishing city.

He knew Jarlaxle was well aware of how utterly uninteresting the thing would be, but he had to hand it to the drow: he was trying to behave.

Probably for the same reasons he had destroyed something he clearly desired.

Entreri crossed his arms lazily, looking for all the world like he was not actually surveying their surroundings with his five senses and then some, and closed his eyes as he mumbled out his next words, as off-handedly as he could.

"There was a notice about a King trying to clean out his kingdom as well."

Jarlaxle, predictably, perked up.

"Why, yes, I noticed! It seems the whole country was under the reign of some form of undead until recently, and now the amount of beasts, minions and dark fortresses with untold secrets and treasures is proving to be an impediment to populating the land with hard-working farmers!"

Artemis smirked, opening one eye to look at Jarlaxle, and the elf realized he had just given away that he had been investigating the issue.

He did not mind.

"The rewards are rich, including but not limiting to lordships over the cleaned castles and, of course, gold. But you're not going to like it, my friend. It's a _paladin_ king," the drow shrugged, dismissing the matter.

Which went to prove just how invested he was in the whole 'let's care about others beyond myself' project.

The assassin, however, raised an eyebrow.

"Lord Jarlaxle, savior of... what was the name of the wannabe country, again?"

"I'll be damned if I can remember!" grinned said drow.

"A place you're not sure about, people we thoroughly dislike, high chances that we will end up cursed and prosecuted by the end of our toils..." Entreri shook his head, enumerating the things that could possibly go wrong if they even attempted to carve out their niche in that new country who called for heroes through Inn bill boards.

Then, a slow smirk made its way onto the expressionless face of the man.

"Sounds like Way to Profit number Umphteen."

Jarlaxle barked a laugh at that, both in amusement and in wonder.

"My friend, I knew you'd see it that way!" with a flamboyant movement, the drow took off his hat and wrapped his free arm around Entreri's shoulders, who rolled his eyes at the gesture of camaraderie – and knew Jarlaxle _understood_ even as he went on in full grandiloquent mode.

"Indeed, let us sail forth and overcome the obstacles born of prejudice to show the world what true heroes we are! Then, once they are all in shock of our gallantry and courage and skill, let them shower us with gold and fame and presents!"

"We are not heroes, Jarlaxle."

"Are, too," the drow grinned, his hat clutched to his chest, his other arm still hanging comfortably on the human. "Ask the good people of Beregost, or Greenest! Ask those who can sleep freely now because the threat of the Shadovar is gone! Routed by us, I might add!"

Entreri frowned, clearly seeing the point but refusing to agree to anything 'heroic' on principle.

Jarlaxle just played his trump card.

"Just think about Do'Urden's face when he starts hearing folks praising the names of Jarlaxle and none other than Artemis Entreri for giving them a better life out of the goodness of their hearts!"

The Calishite shook his head, and muttered something about being 'sellswords', but he was smiling.

It would be an amusing sight, indeed.

The drow grinned, knowing that he had won, and gave the man's shoulder a squeeze.

"Let us make a good name - thankful rewards are greater than blackmailed ones. And then," his grin turned a smaller version of itself that was genuine in ways his other masks could not dream of being. "And then, when we've saved and have a reputation and are rich beyond measure, we can look into starting our own company."

"Another Bregan D'aerthe?" Entreri was almost scared to ask.

"Nope! There's already one of those, and it's too unique to be copied. No, I'm thinking along the lines of establishing... I don't know, perhaps a service of mercenaries with a permanent base. Have a training center. Hire our services to prevent scamming, and do some of our own when we're not treated right..."

Jarlaxle trailed off. What he was talking about, albeit vaguely, was more or less - if his time among the Calishite culture had given him the right understanding – was what the guilds back in Calimport were born for. The true calling of the great Houses and their Pashas before it all went down to a simple gang war.

The kind of Guild Entreri had dreamed - no, the man did not know how to dream. The guild Entreri had wanted to revive after their take-over of Basadoni.

It might have been possible if the Crystal Shard and the other guilds had not stepped in.

It was going to be possible, without Shard and without competition.

They both knew it.

Entreri fingered the simple iron band that adorned his ring finger: they were just a few minute's worth of travel from the beginning of a new chapter.

"What about our companions?" he asked, partly stalling and partly because, loath as he was to admit it, he _cared_.

Jarlaxle shrugged.

"I doubt they are going anywhere anytime soon," he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "We can leave them a note: 'go dig up Old Phlan; we'll be back soon' or something like that."

Artemis Entreri shook his head and emitted a low, dark chuckle. Winging it like that, with no preparation whatsoever, was exactly the kind of thing he would never do.

So he just twisted the ring on his finger and faded away alongside a perplexed, grinning dark elf.

Because, really, it was exactly the kind of thing his friend would love.

o O o

The second floor of the most cozy, quintessential and blissfully oblivious inn of Phlan was a place for matters to be taken care of with the leisured pace of those who are not aware of the passage of time or of the comings and goings of the world around them, and who could care less.

Everything on the ambient decoration invited to a certain kind of calm, soothing travelers and workers alike: there were only six rooms, and the floor was carpeted with warm-hued rugs. The two windows that spilled light into the landing had potted plants in them, and the heavy oak doors were regularly varnished and cleaned, so it always smelled fresh – except at the first light in the morning, when the staff baked delicious goods and the aromas would crawl up from the kitchen and the eating room.

Indeed, it was the best inn in town and it showed. It enveloped its visitors with the need to be gentle, polite. Soft and mild.

Even though the innkeeper of such an establishment had had serious misgivings about letting out his best suite to the weird group who had checked in the previous night, and had almost been intimidated into offering his services by their serious air of competence and their bloodstained clothes, it looked like it was going to turn out like a good idea.

After all, they had paid a couple of nights in advance and the innkeeper had seen what kind of gold they had. And besides, the extravagant and grandiloquent drow had already left, and with him had gone the grim-looking human who gave every patron the creeps and made one's hair stand on end even when he was just drinking morning's coffee on a corner.

The other two? It did not look like they were going to be out and about spooking his clientele, so they were unlikely to outstay their welcome.

No, things in his well-tended inn were running smoothly and kept doing so. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and except for the handful of gold coins that the man would find discreetly placed on his kitchen every morning from that first day on, there was no indication whatsoever that a powerful, crazy sorceress and a drow mage warrior had taken up residence on his locale.

Well, there was the sword.

It was a plain iron weapon, lacking elegance and ornaments, and it would appear at random times, propped up against the wall close to the door to the room the guests were staying in.

At first, it had drawn curious glances from the personnel and from other guests – after all, wasn't leaving it around like that a screaming demand to be robbed? But somehow, the blade was never touched. As if some kind of warning kept everyone from so much as looking it twice… To the point where people stopped paying attention to it.

With enough practice, they all could even pretend that the faint voice that resonated in their head whenever they were upstairs, cleaning the rooms or bringing room service, was just their imagination.

_Pal? Come on, pal! This is totally not fair! After all we went through, and now you lock me out! You're totally going to flunk it without my help, you retarded drow! Pick me up again! Pick me up this very moment!_

_… Pal? Are you there?_

Of course, it was just their imagination…

o O o

The End

Although... Is There Any Such Thing as The End?

o O o

* * *

**A/N:** _I know I said I'd update on monday, but I had the epilogue sitting on my computer (which is the reason I knew I could update on time...) and realized that with the start of NaNoWriMo, things would likely be too hectic. So, here it is: I give you the end to Greatest Prize, and the closing point to the Entrepreneurial Saga. It has been one hell of a exciting ride for me, and I can't thank you enough, you guys, who have supported me through plot holes and dry periods and creative sprees. You guys who have read me and have felt something while reading my words. I won't write names, because I'm bound to forget one and that would make me feel really wretched - and because I can't think up an order I'd like to acknoledge you all. Just, thank you. _

_This story made me feel like G.R.R. Martin. Not because I'm half as good as he is, but because I've been so long with two half-written chapters waiting to wrap up my "novel". I know that was a bit wicked of me, and I apologize - though real life did take over, I figure it was only because I allowed it to. I could have finished sooner. The truth is, though, I did not really want to finish, did I. The End are such serious words. Letting go of the characters I've been so long with, letting them move on on their own, closing the story... it was a bit difficult for me, and it sucked to all of you. You can see what I ended up doing: editing, editing and editing until I could offer closure while keeping an open ending - and ending that suggest that life still will go on for our friends, that there're more adventures waiting right around the corner. How exactly do Rizolvir and Yria get over their akward act and differences? Will they get back to Undermountain and Halaster? Will Eldath come back? And, what about Entreri and Jarlaxle? How would a trip to Vaasa work if the adventure was based on solid characterisation? Would they create their own mercenary empire? How will their friendship progress? _

_Yes, plenty of questions. No de facto answers... But that's life, isn't it? Wondering and dreaming. Let us dream endless adventures going beyond this story! _

_So, to finish my little speech... Thank you. And I hope to see you soon_.


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